


Customer Service

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, Stupid Boys, this will probably just devolve into fluffy shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2282211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Karkat works at Hollywood Video and falls in love too easily. Bad movies are watched. Jelly donuts are eaten. Roommates do damage control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here's Looking at Euclid

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what this is. My first contribution to the fandom, I guess? Unbeta'd, so lemme know if you see any mistakes.

Your name is **KARKAT VANTAS** and you have gotten off on the **WRONG FOOT**. You are beginning to think you have no right foot, because it seems most of your relationships start off this way. That and you can’t dance to save your life. 

“Are you serious?” you sneer, glancing between the several offending items in your hands and the dumbass that’s renting them. 

The idiot’s wide smile hasn't faltered, continuing to blind you with extremely white and unfortunately large, protrusive teeth. 

“What’s wrong with them?” he asks, and even his voice grates on your very sensitive nerves. 

You know that gifting people with your extensive opinions on movies is not actually part of your job description (which is a little confusing because you work at **HOLLYWOOD VIDEO**. You figure if you wanted to do that you should have gotten a job at the **LOCALLY OWNED** place by the campus, but unfortunately you find **FILM STUDENTS** equally infuriating as the general public, if not more so).

The aforementioned job description includes:

1\. (The **NUMBER ONE RULE** of customer service) Smile! 

This seems to have the opposite of the desired effect on customers so you have schooled your expression into one of mild irritation. Kanaya says it’s an improvement on the usual.

2\. Staff the checkout counter.  
3\. Charge people ridiculous amounts of money in late fees.  
4\. Reshelve returns.  
5\. The dreaded inventory.  
6\. Help the poor, brain dead populace who can’t tell the difference between horror and thrillers find what they’re looking for. 

Instead of actually doing any of these, most of your time is spent IMing Sollux through ICQ on the monster of a computer in the break room (somehow you talk to him more using technology than in real life, despite living with the guy. And people call _you_ a recluse) and reading synopsis in the romcom section. Occasionally you nick Faygo for Gamzee, because you are mysteriously the only place in town that sells it, and even though that saccharine shit is going to rot his teeth, you find it hard to say no to him. 

So, not a lot of room for the impartation of your knowledge on this matter to the uneducated plebeians. 

But this guy is just _asking_ for it. That and it’s been a long night, and there is nothing you desire more at this moment than to collapse on your sweet, sweet **FLOOR MATTRESS**. Complete with **QUESTIONABLE STAINS** and **SAD INDENTS** from the previous owner. You don’t know who that is. You got it from a free pile on the side of the road. So if you’re a little quick to jump the chewing assholes out for awful choices gun, who’s really to blame? Not you, that’s for sure. 

Also, his face is _really_ annoying. 

“What’s wrong with them? What’s _right_ with them would be a better question, because there’s not a damn lot. I mean really, ‘Honey, I Shrunk the Kids’? What are you, five? I have worked here for a year and I have never seen this checked out. I have never seen it returned. I have never even seen people stop and contemplate it. You know why that is? Because it’s a pathetic attempt of a children's movie. This is a film that you see solely in the previews on Disney tapes before forgetting it completely. And before you ask, yes, I have watched it. I wish I hadn't. That’s an hour and a half of my life that I can’t ever get back.”

“And this,” you jab a finger sharply at the cover of Ghostbusters 2. “This is an atrocity. Anyone who’s a true and devoted fan of the first one would rather pour acid down their throat than endure this more than once. I would watch Ghostbusters over and over until my ass melded to the couch and we formed some sort of semi-sentient suede human hybrid before watching this piece of shit again. See this pompous little asswipe?” You wave the wriggly, peace sign offering ghost around. “That does not look like a well busted extraterrestrial. And Murray, Ramis, Aykroyd and Hudson knew it because their acting was sub fucking par. This entire movie was a marketing move.” 

You look at the last one.

“And what is this? Fire Birds? Where did you even find this? It looks like a Top Gun remake with Nicholas Cage instead of Tom Cruise. Augh.” 

An orange tinted Cage in army fatigues stares at you soulfully from under scratched plastic and you grimace back.

“The only reason that I can believe someone would willingly rent these three things in tandem is that they have some undeserving soul tied up in their basement and have selected these as a means of psychological torture. In which case, I pity them. I really fucking do, but I also applaud the genius of their captor because these are some really mind-numbingly terrible movies. Congratulations on your excellent choice in torture devices because watching more than five minutes of any of these is enough to drive someone certifiably, worthy of institutionalization, bat shit insane.”

You finish and you are a little winded (Terezi gave you trophy declaring you the champion of the longest rant without breathing. It sits lovingly on your desk and you cherish it deeply).

You realize you have failed the requirement of a professional attitude in the workplace. You glance from the movies to the victim of your kind of inappropriate ranting and find that his smile seems to be even wider than before, eyebrows pushed up into a mop of hair that looks like it’s been cut sort of funny and too short in some places and has almost enough unruliness to rival your own. But not quite. The guy doesn't have the coarse ethnic thing going for him. Your crown is secure. 

Anyways, he obviously wasn't disturbed too badly. This is actually a little unsettling, as the most common responses to your tirades range from astonishment and scandalization to outright anger. Your friends just ignore you. They've had sufficient time to acclimate.

It’s only after you start comparing the color of his eyes

_(blue blue blue ridiculously fucking blue you didn't even know they made eyes that color)_

to blue raspberry Fruit Gushers 

_(brilliant blue FCF, blue 1, E133, 42090, goddammit you need to stop memorizing shit off of packaging when you're bored that’s not fucking normal)_

that you realize you've been staring at each other for maybe a little bit longer than really necessary. 

He pushes up his glasses at the bridge with his index and middle finger. Your lips part and you inhale, but before you can say something, you don’t really know what, just like all the other shit that comes out of your mouth, you hear “VANTAS!” barked from behind you in the tone that all expendable employees of corporate companies have come to fear from the depths of their impoverished souls. 

It appears your **MANAGER** has also noticed the mistake.

You turn slowly and behold the face that has been hardened by many years of **CUSTOMER SERVICE** and know the true terror of your job (or life) hanging in the balance. 

Your manager is a dour little man (not unlike yourself) who wears stuffy suits and doesn't look half as suave as he would like to in them. He is partial to old black and white crime films and slasher movies. He steals and eats all the Scottie Dogs and then blames it on his staff, threatens them with lawsuits, and has set the microwave on fire four times in the past nine months. Presumably by accident, though you are not so sure. Your manager’s name is **JACK NOIR**. 

“Language like that isn't tolerated in the workplace, Vantas, and especially not in front of a customer.” 

You shrink before his managerial stare and resist the urge to abscond. You really, really do not want to be **FIRED**. 

“Sorry, sir,” you say weakly. 

It is then that the blue eyed fuckwad decides to open his stupid, malformed mouth, probably sealing your fate and banishing you to the grease blistered, garishly colored nightmare that is the **FAST FOOD INDUSTRY**. 

[Help him, John, you’re his only hope.]

“Actually,” he interrupts in that moronic voice. He sounds like the goddamn protagonist of something on Cartoon Network that Tavros and Gamzee like to watch. Foster’s Home for Imaginary Dipshits. Fanny Phantom. Whatever.

You and Jack turn to look at him and he pushes his glasses up again in that aggravating anime trash way _(his glasses are thick, black framed and rectangular, they magnify his eyes in a way that’s almost, okay, yes it is, too much and incredibly dorky, he must have really bad eyesight, his fingers are long and skinny and have knobby knuckles, stop checking him out, seriously, of all times-)_. You see his eyes _(Twizzler Jolly Rancher blue)_ dart down to the name tag pinned to the offensively red shirt that makes up your uniform. “Karkat and I are buddies. He was just offering his enthusiastic but definitely wrong thoughts on my choice in movies. So it’s okay.” 

You stare at him in disbelief. Jack glowers at him suspiciously. “You two know each other?” he asks.

“Oh yeah, we go waaaay back,” he drawls it out and then gives you a pointed look. You turn to Jack and nod your head perhaps a tad too vigorously. 

Jack still looks doubtful, probably weighing the effort of doing something about your misconduct against how much he gives a shit. The odds appear to be in your favor. “Alright. Watch your mouth next time, Vantas,” he says sharply, and skulks off to make someone else’s life difficult.

You let out your breath in an audible sigh of relief and the guy starts laughing behind you. It’s very obnoxious and loud and totally not endearing. 

“You should have seen your face when he said your name!” he gets out between breaths. 

You give him the glare that tells people you’re fantasizing about their murder. “Just take your fucking movies and get out of here,” you snarl, a bit quieter, in case the boss man is still lurking. You scan the barcodes with your laser and the machine emits three beeps. 

“What, no thank you?” He leans in a little and you get an eyeful of his moronic, perfect face. He smells like girly laundry detergent. He’s very tall.

“You’re holding up the line,” you say, and shove the movies into his hands. Your fingers brush and you jerk back. 

“There’s no line,” he points out. 

“Wow, really? I couldn't fucking tell. I was hoping you’d take the hint and _leave_ , but I should have realized your amoeba sized intellect wouldn't be able to grasp such nuances.”

“You don’t even want to know the name of your valiant savior?

At a loss for words, you simply stare at him as if you cannot physically comprehend how someone can be such an imbecile. He tucks his movies under the opposite arm and sticks out a hand to shake. 

“John Egbert,” he wiggles his fingers around while still wearing that thick-witted expression. You have a sneaking sense he’s being deliberately antagonistic. 

After a minute of you not offering up your hand, he takes his back (you wonder if he plays piano). “Nice to meet you, Karkat. I like your name. Beep beep meow,” he beams. 

“And what the fuck kind of name is Egbert anyways?” you grumble. “Seriously, piss off. Now.” 

You watch as he shrugs and turns to go, scowling at his stupid scuffed up high-tops, and his stupid jeans that hang off his stupidly long, scrawny legs, and his stupid geeky t-shirt (you appreciate the Casablanca reference, but always hated geometry) You wait until he is safely out of the building before digging your hands into your hair and groaning. You feel the strong urge to hit something, a common response to dealing with morons, albeit very attractive ones. You scan the store for Jack before giving into the urge to escape to the break room five minutes early. No one is usually here at this time of night anyways. Calliope can handle it.

The computer is waiting patiently for you to have your minor emotional breakdown. You log on at the speed of light.

 

9:45:01 PM carcinoGeneticist: SOLLUX  
9:47:32 PM carcinoGeneticist: SOLLUX  
9:52:24 PM carcinoGeneticist: SOLLUX  
9:53:06 PM carcinoGeneticist: SOLLUX I HAVE A PROBLEM. IT IS A VERY SERIOUS ONE. WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE DOING THAT TAKES PRECEDENCE OVER MY VERY SERIOUS PROBLEM. 

9:58:29 PM twinArmageddons: je2u2 chrii2t CG we all know you have a 2eriiou2 problem.  
9:58:35 PM twinArmageddons: what the fuck do you want ii’m tryiing two make rent.

9:58:45 PM carcinoGeneticist: THIS IS SO MUCH MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR MENIAL HACKING JOBS.

9:59:07 PM twinArmageddons: you’re ju2t jealou2 you can’t code worth shiit man.

10:00:00 PM carcinoGeneticist: I THINK I MIGHT HAVE JUST MET THE LOVE OF MY LIFE.

10:03:67 PM twinArmageddons: oh for fuck2 2ake.


	2. Wannabe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY GIGAUNPAUSE Y'ALL
> 
> warning for racial slur, general unbeta'dness

Your name is **KARKAT VANTAS** and you have been listening to empowering music such as **THE SPICE GIRLS** and **HILARY DUFF** for three days to cleanse yourself of any residual **GOOEY FEELINGS** from Monday’s **ENCOUNTER**.

They still stick to you, like a film of glue sticks to the covers of **TRASHY BODICE RIPPERS** when the price tags are peeled off. Usually an Olsen Twins marathon and cheap boxed wine is enough to get you over it, but it seems like this time might not be so easy. 

Gamzee has already taken away your secret stash of depressing romantic movies and hidden them, something he does every time you develop feelings for someone you don’t know and will probably never see more than once. Like the sixth grade girl that you are. Emotionally volatile and pathetic. 

Nevertheless, at work you find yourself looking up every time the electronic doorbell sounds. By ten you start reminding yourself of a dog that’s owner has left it at home and, reveling in self disgust, you slink off to your home turf, the romantic comedies. There you crouch, making a farce of correcting organizational errors, reading about love lives better than your own in some twisted form of masochism that you've deliberately never spent time to psychoanalyze. 

_It’s 1987, and geeky Jenna wants to be popular. When her 13th birthday party goes awry, and she makes a wish that she could just be 30 already, she wakes up to discover she’s flash-forwarded 17 years. Now a successful magazine editor, Jenna finds out that being an adult isn't all it’s cracked up to be._

“Yeah, no shit,” you mutter. 

You've just picked up Maid in Manhattan when you hear a revoltingly anticipated voice. 

“Hi Karkat!” it says cheerfully. You whip around and behold a one **JOHN EGBERT** who is again standing too close _(does he have any notion of personal space? You don’t think so)_ and smiling too brightly _(seriously, damage is being inflicted on your corneas. You might have to start wearing sunglasses inside like some hungover douche bag)_. 

Instantly you are ashamed of all the mooning you've done over this _dolt_ and any momentary delight at him showing vanishes.

“Why are you always here so late?” you ask accusingly, foregoing a greeting. 

“Night class. Organic Chemistry in the morning was full,” he shrugs his bony, broad shoulders. 

“So. You’re a student,” you say _(not bitterly, not bitterly at all, oh no, no bitterness here, you’re just as sweet as a maraschino fucking cherry)_. You sound as bitter as over-steeped black tea without cream. 

“Yeah. Senior. Human bio stuff, mostly genetics.” 

Well at least he isn't actually as stupid as he looks. 

His eyes drop to the item clutched in your hands. “You like _romcoms?_ ” he asks, as if you have a flesh-eating disease, or like, murdered your grandmother. Your metaphorical hackles raise.

“You know, I work here. Just because I’m holding one doesn't mean anything . And besides, what’s wrong with romcoms?” you snap, only a little defensively. 

John looks at you in disbelief. “Oh my god, you _do_. You like romcoms. I mean, from what you said the other day, I was thinking you were some avant-garde loving ass who only goes to see foreign film at the art theater.”

You sneer at him. “I’m genuinely offended. My friend Kanaya made me watch Babbette’s Feast and I fell asleep a third of the way through.”

He throws his head back and laughs in an appallingly attractive way. You watch his adam's apple bob. “My step-sister tried to get me to watch that too!” Your eyes snap back to his face. “But I can’t read subtitles very well.”

Well, maybe he’s still pretty stupid. 

“At least we can agree on something,” he grins. 

Suddenly you find yourself on offered neutral ground. This is not something that happens often, except maybe over the fact that Eridan Ampora is a complete prick. You are not comfortable on neutral ground, as you generally disagree with everyone on principle. You try for a slightly delayed recovery;

“And screw you! Romcoms are fucking great. They are the brilliant combination of two genres into a third, superior one, like how peanut butter and jelly are sort of mediocre on their own, but putting them together is this whole fucking other thing. Besides, what would you know, buckteeth? You don’t have any taste either,” you snarl, pointedly eyeing the copy of Terminator 3 in his possession.

Okay, buckteeth might have been low, but whatever. The comment doesn't seem to faze him.

“My teeth are charming,” he smiles wider as if to prove a point. Which it does. But you’re not going to tell him that.

You snort. “To whom, squirrels? Do they follow you around in parks? I bet they do.”

“You just admitted you had no taste,” John points out. 

“What?”

“You said, ‘you don’t have any taste _either’_.”

You glare at him. He raises his hands in mock-surrender. “Just saying.”

 _“The store will be closing in ten minutes,”_ Calliope comes over the intercom, interrupting the gruesome murder you are trying to relay through your eyes. He remains impervious. No one ever takes your threats seriously. 

“That’s my cue! Nice seeing you again, Karkat,” he says, before his features set into a stony facade. “I’ll be back,” he tells you in some horrid attempt at an Arnold Schwarzenegger impression, and breezes past, patting you on the shoulder as he goes. You watch with your mouth slightly open as he rents his movie and walks out.

You can feel the spot his hand touched your shoulder for the rest of the night, like a phantom limb, or a really bad itch. 

 

***

 

You lay on the sagging, sheetless mattress, in your cluttered closet of a room, listening to the refrigerator carburetor switch on and Gamzee’s deep breathing next to your head. The fluorescent light of your digital clock casts eerie green shadows on the walls.

“There’s no chance,” you whisper into the dark, silent apartment. “He’s a nice white boy.”

You feel the press of lips on your hair. 

“I’m not a nice boy, Zee.”

“You’re the nicest boy I've motherfuckin’ met,” Gamzee murmurs, voice gravely with sleep. 

You sigh and squeeze the tattooed hand resting on your stomach. He squeezes back. 

Glow in the dark star stickers twinkle at you from the water stained ceiling.

 

***

 

“Thank you _so_ much, Karkat,” Calliope grips both of your hands in hers. Wide green eyes stare at you from under blonde fringe.

“Um,” you say eloquently, and try to pull away, not used to being thanked so earnestly. “It’s really not a problem.”

“You know I wouldn't ever ask you to close up for me otherwise, I’d never dream of being so presumptuous, It’s just my blasted brother has gotten himself arrested again and needs someone to bail him out and-”

“It’s fine Calliope,” you interrupt, finally reclaiming your hands. “Go deal with your terrible familial relation.”

“He’s not,” she starts, and falters. “Well, he is, he’s just,”

“ _Go,_ ” you shoo her outside.“Wouldn't want him to be in that holding cell for too long, he might kill his roommate.” She waves as you close the door behind her. 

You’re only sort of joking. The guy is a misogynistic piece of shit and you are 85% sure that he is a serial killer. And you've only met him once. His sister is too good to him. 

Closing the store mainly means shelving some overstock that’s been sitting in boxes and emptying the tills. The sooner you finish, the sooner you’ll be home. You aren’t looking forward to the hour and a half walk to your shitty apartment, though. The buses will have stopped running for the night by the time you're done, and you knew that when you agreed to help Calliope out. But she’s like a baby animal, and it’s not her fault her brother’s a dick. You can’t say no. You just can’t. 

It seems like an eternity before you finally punch your card, turn off all the lights, set the security alarm, and grab your ratty backpack (held together with safety pins and duct tape), locking the doors behind you and pocketing your keys. The night air is cold and the wind whips around, flicking your hair into your face. You push it back with a hand and blink against the stinging in your eyes. “Fuck,” you say. Goosebumps raise along the light brown skin of your forearms, and you rub at them in an attempt to retain heat. 

Naturally, you've left your coat at home. Fucking September. 

You make your way through dark streets, boots crunching on loose gravel and broken glass. The air has a restlessness to it, heavy and wet smelling. 

_“fuck,”_ you exclaim for the second time, four blocks away, with the sudden realization that you didn't IM Sollux or use the phone to call anyone to say you would be home later than usual. You tell yourself it won’t really be a problem, it’s only…

You check your bulky watch. 

An hour past the time you usually get home. 

Hopefully Gamzee will be too high and Sollux will be too busy playing Diablo and Tavros...Well, Tavros always worries, but he’s the least likely to call the cops and try to file a missing persons report. Sometimes you honestly wonder when your friends got replaced by a flock of mother hens. It’s almost comical sometimes. Maybe a little touching, if you put stock in that bullshit (who are you kidding). But mostly just annoying.

You pick up your pace, hoping to get home before one of them starts searching the streets and shouting your name. 

And then there’s a slight drop of water on your ear. 

It starts to rain. And not lightly pissing on your face either, like, buckets. You’re soaked through in a minute. 

“FUCK!” you yell at the sky, because there is really not a lot of things you hate more than being spontaneously wet. “I can’t fucking believe this,” you mutter.

You debate running the rest of the way, but you’re not even in the seedy part of town yet and sort of doubt you have that kind of stamina. 

You heave a resigned sigh and continue through the torrential downpour, feeling soggy and miserable. 

The streetlights get fewer and farther between, light reflecting off raindrops and casting polychromatic halos. High rises give way to boarded up gas stations and fading graffiti. The familiar surroundings put you at ease.

Headlights cut through the dark from behind, and the slick sound of tires on wet pavement approaches. 

You watch as the car drives past you, and tense when it slows and pulls close to the curb. When it stops, your hand slides a little closer to the keys in your pocket that have a knife clipped to them. You’re close enough to 4th Ave to be wary; you never know when a bunch of drunk frat boys will decide to have some fun and beat the shit out of a kid with darker skin than theirs. It’s happened plenty of times before. You narrow your eyes; the car’s nice, but not trust fund nice. Looks used. 

The window rolls down as you approach, and your fist tightens in your pocket. You keep your head low and walk faster,

[John ==> be the hero]

“Hey, Karkat!”

and promptly stop. You know that voice. You take a few steps back and peer disbelievingly into the car, where sure enough, John Egbert is leaning over into the passenger seat. You unclench your hands. 

“I _knew_ it was you,” he says, sounding absolutely pleased with himself. 

“Are you fucking stalking me, Egbert?” you ask, and are gratified to see his smile dampen. He blinks as if he cannot physically comprehend someone accusing him of such a thing.

“No dude, there’s no way I could mistake the red shirt and that someone-pissed-in-my-cheerios expression of yours,” he says and looks earnestly at Karkat, “You know, your face can get stuck like that.”

You curl your lip in a sneer and flip him off, turning from the window, intent on continuing your journey Egbert free. 

“Wait!” he yelps. The car jolts forward. 

You stop again, exasperated. “What do you want?”

You’re exhausted and wet and even if you find John Egbert’s face dashingly handsome, you really need to get home and you've still got a ways to walk.

“It’s coming down out there,” he starts.

“Really? I hadn't noticed,” you interject. 

“Let me drive you to wherever you’re going.” 

“Are you sure you’re not stalking me? I mean, you show up at random where I work, insistently try to talk to me, now you’re asking me to get in your car? Sounds pretty fucking dicey. How do I know you’re not going to kidnap me and force me to watch bad movies?”

He rolls his eyes. “Come on! You’re going to get pneumonia or something, then your death will be on my conscience.”

“I don’t think people really die of pneumonia anymore, dumbass,” you say, and consider the vehicle’s interior. It’s definitely an improvement from where you’re standing. He raises his dark eyebrows expectantly. “I’ll get your car all wet,” you protest, obstinate.

“It’s already wet.” The rain had been coming in through the open window. You grit your teeth and open the door, shoving your backpack in the space for your legs. You settle into the seat and roll up the window. It’s a welcome reprieve from the shitstorm outside. The warmth washes over you and-

“I _swear_ to god, are you listening to the _Backstreet Boys?_ ”

“Uuuuh,” John hits the tape player’s off button, “no.” 

“You are such a _dweeb_ ,” you say, incredulous, aware of the fact that you are being incredibly hypocritical and that you are guilty of majorly crushing on said dweeb. A punishable offense, honestly. Where’s Terezi when you need her. 

John throws a grin at you. “Hey, this dweeb is giving you a ride.” 

“I’m only doing this because my roommates are a bunch of over-protective freaks with attachment issues and they might start headhunting if I’m any later than I am. Whether it’s my head or the presumed murderers, I don’t know.” You figure you should at least make some pretense of having a problem with this. 

You glance over at John and find him staring at you with a rather odd expression.

Neon signs blink from bar windows, casting odd mottled shadows through the rain on the windows. The light catches on the frames of his glasses. 

Your feel your ears heat up when you realize you must look like a train wreck; clothes soaked through and sticking to your body, hair plastered to your face and dripping water everywhere; into your clumped eyelashes and down your cheeks. You probably bear the striking resemblance to a half drowned cat. You push your hair back from your forehead again and notice him swallow.

“You should put on your seat-belt,” he says, and turns away, hands on the steering wheel.

“You sure you know how to drive?” You pull the strap tight across your chest.

John huffs. “I’m twenty two.”

“Yeah, well you don’t act like it.”

As if to demonstrate, John sticks his tongue out at you.

“I cannot believe you actually just did that,” you groan. “Just take a right at the next stop.” He follows your instructions and seems content to stay quiet for once. You let yourself be lulled by the heater, the worn seat. 

Kanaya once pointed out that silence made you nervous and that’s why you always feel the need to fill it with your angry shouting. As usual, she was spot-on. 

“What were you even doing out this late anyways? I sort of doubt Organic Chemistry runs past midnight,” you ask, breaking the silence. 

His brow furrows, skin creasing in the middle. You have the sudden urge to smooth it out with your fingers. “I was sort of avoiding my apartment.”

“What, you get sexiled?” 

John coughs. “No! No. My roommate's _brother_ is in town today, and he sort of…” John trails off, purses his lips, a look of consternation on his face. “He just sort of freaks me out.”

“That’s it?” you snort. 

“He’s really intense! You know those ridiculously popular pony books?”

“The real ones or the satirical, fucked up ones?” 

“The fucked up ones.”

You’re a little confused as to what this has to do with his roommate's brother, but you’re actually quite familiar with them. You and Sollux sent the first three to Equius for his birthday one year and he refused to talk to you for months. That had sort of been the point. 

“Yeah. What about them?”

“Well, he’s the author.”

You gape a little. “Seriously? Your roommate's brother is D. Strider?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“I guess. They have a kind of...weird relationship.” He pushes up his glasses, then shrugs, as if visibly shaking off a thought. “Never mind.”

“Take a left here.” 

He clears his throat and turns onto your street. “So, are you a student?” 

“No,” you cross your arms, suddenly uncomfortable and glad you’re basically home. 

“Really?” He sounds surprised. It’s not that fucking surprising. 

“Yes, really,” you curtly answer. 

“I mean, I guess I just assumed you were because it’s a college town and you’re around my age, right?” 

“I’m 21, yeah, and why don’t you mind your own fucking business, Egbert,” you bark at him, hostile. “Pull in here.”

John seems to realize he said something wrong, even though he really didn't. You clench your jaw, feeling guilt pull at your insides for snapping at him. The car is silent for an awkward minute as he pulls up to the curb in front of your squat, stuccoed apartment complex. The plaster is crumbling in places, the front veranda is littered with cigarette butts and maintenance have stopped trying to cover up the tagging, but fuck if you’re not glad to see it. 

“Uh,” he starts again. Jesus, he sounds like Tav when he does that. “Sorr-,”

You cut him off. “Whatever, it doesn't matter. Thanks for the ride.” 

You throw open the door, jump out and close it behind you ( _careful not to slam it, you’re not that much of an asshole, not really, you try not to be, it’s not his fault anyway, it’s you, you, as per usual_ ) interrupting another, 

“hey, wai-.” 

So maybe you’re a little touchy on the subject. You hunch your shoulders and jog to get beneath the awning in an effort to minimize contact with the rain. Apartment 413 door’s edges are misaligned and the handle’s pretty busted up from the numerous times it’s probably been kicked in from previous tenants. You dig your keys out of your pocket and undo the first lock. The smell of clove cigarettes hits you and you turn to see Meena slouched in a lawn chair a couple doors down, smoking and watching you silently. Light from the fritzing bug killer on the wall catches in her mass of oiled braids. 

“Hey, Meena,” you greet. 

“Crabby,” she nods. You hear John’s car pull away. “You’re home late. That your boyfriend?”

You give a self-deprecating laugh. “No.”

She hums, considering. Her eyes squint from behind cheap, fuchsia framed reading glasses. “Want me to beat some sense into him, Crabby?”

“No thanks, Meena.” 

Her thick gold earrings wobble as she shrugs and takes a long drag, smoke coming out of her nostrils like a dark bespectacled dragon. “Lemme’ know if you reconsider.” 

Before you can get to the second lock, the door is jolted open and Sollux stands in front of you, arms crossed over his skinny chest and a severely unimpressed look on his face. 

“Wow,” you say, “it left its lair. Did that reckoning thing Gamzee’s been going on about finally happen and I just didn't notice?”

“He’s not dead!” Sollux shouts, moving aside to let you in. 

You relax as the air of your cluttered apartment washes over you, smelling of Chinese take-out and still not as warm as it should be, (you try to keep the heating off until at least November) but home nevertheless. You step on the heels of both your boots, hopping awkwardly to free your feet of their confines, leaving them sitting in a soggy mess next to oversized clown shoes. 

You hear a door close, and look up to find Gamzee moving towards you much quicker than his usual languid, slouching gait. Suddenly there’s large hands on your face and he’s peering down at you with raw concern. You heart instantly softens. You are a complete sack of shit. 

“There you are,” he says, turning your head from side to side. Sollux rolls his eyes and retreats to the kitchen.

“Hey,” you say quietly, reaching to cover one of his hands with your own. “Don’t be like that. I’m fine.” 

You've apparently passed inspection, because he beams at you, appeased. “You made a brother worry.”

“You didn’t wash your face all the way off, dumbass,” you admonish, taking in the smudged paint caked around his mouth and eyes, the raised and shiny skin of the three scars running diagonally from cheek to forehead. 

“Can’t do that when I’m all up and concerned about my best motherfuckin’ friend, can I?” he drawls.

“Sorry” you say, lowering his hands. You peer around Gamzee’s absurdly tall, long limbed body. “Hey Tav,” you wave at him on the couch, where he’s propped up on pillows and covered by a Spongebob blanket, reading a familiar, worn book. His wheelchair rests within reaching distance. “The Little Prince, again?” 

Tavros smiles bashfully. “I’m uh, glad to see that you’re not, dead or, anything.”

Sollux reappears from the kitchen, carton in hand, chewing thoughtfully. “Why so late?”

You sigh, exhausted. Gamzee rests his hands on your shoulders and turns you around, rubbing circles into the skin under your collar with the pads of his thumbs. “A coworker asked me to close for her last minute, and me, being the self sacrificing, benevolent saint that I am, agreed. I didn’t get done until after the buses stopped running, and then it started raining like it’s reenacting one of the fucking plagues -,”

“frogs, brother,” Gamzee interjects. 

“Uh-huh, so then in some fucking meet-cute shit, I run into-,”

Someone knocks on the door.

“....John.”

Sollux stops chewing and his eyebrows raise. Tavros looks up from his book. Gamzee meanders over to the door, opening it up enough to loom at whoever’s there through the crack. 

“Hey, _bolillo_.”

You run a hand down your face. 

“Uuuh,” You hear John hesitate. You don’t blame him. Although you know that Gamzee’s just a gentle giant, (he won’t kill spiders for christs sake, all, “aw KK, he got work to do. He might have a motherfuckin’ spider wife and kids all waiting for him and shit,”) a 6’4” guy inked up to his neck that looks like he got into a knife fight has got to be menacing, even if he’s wearing that stupid ‘Smile! Jesus Loves You’ t-shirt and has a dopey, half baked expression on. 

To his credit, John recovers quickly. “Hi! Karkat forgot his backpack in my car.” 

“Okay, c’mon GZ, stop,” he lets you manhandle him out of the way, smiling serenely.

John stands in the doorway, looking hesitant. You grab the offered backpack.

“Sorry about him,” you throw a glare at Gamzee, “and uh,” you shift your weight between feet, unsure, “for earlier.” 

“Not a big deal,” John shrugs, hands in his pockets.

You want to tell him that you’re a pissy twat prone to knee-jerk aggression with a glass ego and bounteous insecurities, but you suck absolute ass at apologies. You take the out while it’s there.

“You gunna’ introduce us, best friend?” Gamzee interrupts the stilted exchange. 

Well, you had sort of been avoiding that actually, but you might as well cut to the chase and throw your pitiful, ardent dreams to the dogs. Probably tastes better than kibble. 

“This is Gamzee,” you sigh. 

Gamzee grins at him, something that usually makes people a little more than uncomfortable. 

“Thanks for getting a brother home,” he says in his deep, scratchy voice.

“That’s Sollux,” you step back from the door and gesture at Sollux, who’s got a dumpling held between wooden chopsticks. He gives John a once over, nods, and then turns away.

“As much as I find this all fascinating, now that I know you’re not smeared on the road somewhere, I’m going back to my room,” he lisps and walks down the small hallway, retreating back into his cave.

“Okay, see you in a week!” You yell. “Don’t let your mana get too low!” You don’t get a response. “What a little bitch.” 

Gamzee nods lazily in agreement.

“And that’s Tavros,” you wave at the couch where he’s half hidden behind his book.

“Uh, hi,” he mumbles.

“This is John,” you finish, rather unnecessarily. Not like they all don’t know who he is. 

“Nice to meet you,” John grins, overenthusiastic, sticking out a hand to shake. Gamzee looks at it uncomprehendingly, then lethargically lifts a fist. 

“Pound it, brother.”

John pounds it and Gamzee imitates what must be a very sluggish explosion with his mouth and hand.

“You gotta’ blow it up.”

You watch with exasperation as John emits some skilled bomb noises, ridding you of any doubt that he was one of those kids that did nothing but play with Star Wars action figures all day. 

“Yeah, motherfucker, you got it,” Gamzee bobs his head.

“Okay, that’s enough, this is disgusting.” You push Gamzee away, closing the door so it’s only you in the opening. 

“Thanks for bringing this back,” you lift your pack a little. He nods. 

The bug killer wins another battle and spits angrily. John looks especially nice like this, huddled into his NASA hoodie, mist caught in his dark hair and illuminated under the poor, blueish lighting. You feel the sudden, idiotic urge to invite him in.

“I should probably get back to mine,” he smiles, softly this time. 

“Yeah.” 

You’re distracted by the lines of his nose and jaw.

“‘Night, Karkat.” He turns away.

“Night,” you echo. He reaches his car and waves once before climbing in, and you turn red when you realize you’re watching him go like a lovesick high schooler after their first date. You shut the shut the door quickly.

“I like him,” Gamzee hums from where he’s rolling a joint on the folding table.

You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes and groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John totally got sexiled.


	3. Step One (1): Admitting You're a Homosexual

Your name is **KARKAT VANTAS** and you **DO NOT LET PEOPLE BORROW YOUR MOVIES.**

**EVER.**

But you might have to make an exception this time, because you are **TOTALLY CRUSHING** on said hypothetical borrower, and you’re sort of **DESPERATE FOR HIS ATTENTION.**

“So, do you have it?” 

You keep your eyes trained on the scrap of paper you’re holding and off John, who’s leaning as far over the counter as he can, peering at you with exceptionally blue eyes.

On the note, in neat cursive (somehow you doubt that's his handwriting) is _'But I’m a Cheerleader!'_

The movie itself seems pretty incongruous with what you've seen of his appalling choice in cinema, and yeah, even if you are a supposed ‘insufferable philistine,’ (Kanaya’s words) and it falls under the independent film genre, it’s also incredibly brilliant. 

“Unfortunately for you, It’s not nearly mass market enough to place on our shelves.” 

John, honest to god, pouts. He looks like a mentally challenged puppy and it sort of makes you want to die. As you have been finding yourself doing with increased frequency, you once again question your illogical taste in men. 

“Damn,” he sighs with his whole body, just like he talks with his hands and walks in long strides, gets too close and smiles too brightly, like his emotions are so much bigger than himself. 

“Rose wanted me to rent it for her.”

_(Fuck. Fucking fuck. Who’s Rose? Please don’t be his girlfriend, please don’t be his girlfriend, please don’t be his girlfriend.)_

“Rose?” you ask unsubtly, trying to keep your voice even. It comes out a little strangled. Throttled chicken like, maybe _(shit shit shit shit shit god you are such a transparent pathetic shithole seriously, you should just cut your losses while you’re ahead and go hang yourself with some electric chords)._

“She’s one of my best friends,” he wrinkles his nose, “and I guess, more recently my step sister, though that’s still pretty weird to say.”

_(Oh.)_

“Oh,” you say. “Cool.”

Master linguist, slayer of words. It’s you. 

You _should_ probably tell him that he could find it at Video 1, but despite previously stated rule to never to give people your stuff, you have a better idea. 

“We don’t have it here, but I could lend it to you if you gave me a ride home,” you say as casually as possible. You are one devious motherfucker.

“You own it? _You?_ ”

“Hey, it’s a pretty fucking hilarious movie. One of the things that Kanaya’s shown me that I actually enjoy. Well, her and Fef.”

“And who’s this Kanaya you keep talking about?” He asks, sly. “Reciprocation is a vital part of any relationship, you know.”

“What would you know about relationships you insolent little fuckhead, you have the maturity of a five year old and the sex appeal of an elderly man’s bald, liver spotted scalp with a toupee on top,” you snort. 

“Sources say otherwise,” he grins mischievously and waggles his eyebrows. You think you might puke. In a good way though. 

“Cite it, you pile of trash.” 

“C’mon, you didn't give me an answer.” 

You shrug. “She’s just a friend. Probably one of the only sane ones I have.”

He hums, considering, and seems satisfied with your answer. “When do you get off work?”

You check your watch. “Ten minutes.”

He steps away from the desk and gives you an exaggerated, swooping bow. “Your chariot awaits, good sir.” 

He smiles hopefully at you and it makes him look more obtuse than usual and you feel your face heat up and your insides melt like a sad, post December Santa candle. 

***

You spend the car ride arguing about what constitutes as a bad movie versus a ‘so bad it’s good’ movie. You find you have a shared love for Will Smith and MST3K. You make fun of him for the waterlogged, bent and falling apart copies of Red Dwarf and Hitchhiker’s Guide you find shoved in between the seat and the stick shift. 

You enjoy it way too much.

So naturally something has to go a little bit wrong.

It isn't until you've opened your front door, John trailing behind, that you hear an all too familiar cackle. 

“Oh, fucking super,” you groan, as the door snaps shut behind you and the disturbing laughter cuts off. 

“Karkitty, is that you?” Terezi croons. John gives you an amused look.

“Karkitty?” he parrots.

You glare daggers at him. “What in the sweet almighty fuck are you doing in my apartment, you goddamned harpy?” you yell, rounding the corner to find Terezi sitting cross legged on your couch, twirling a collapsed cane in between her fingers. Gamzee’s got an arm slung around her narrow shoulders and what looks like a razor sharp elbow jabbing his ribs. Sollux is sitting on the floor in his dumb red and blue boxers and StarCraft t-shirt, shoveling a slice of the pizza sitting on your pseudo-coffee table (constructed of milk crates and plywood) into his mouth. Tavros is slouched against Gamzee’s other side, punching furiously at the buttons of a sticker covered game-boy, tongue sticking out in concentration. He pauses long enough to wave at John and you, Gamzee smiling dazedly and Sollux jerking his head in greeting.

Terezi looks just to the left of where you’re standing. She grins and it bares the striking resemblance to a shark that’s caught the scent of blood; incredibly white and full of teeth. Her lipstick is as black and pristine as ever, and somewhere in the back of your mind you wonder how she manages to do that when she’s blind as a bat. 

“Can’t I drop by to visit my favorite boys?”

“She brought food, we had to let her in,” Sollux mumbles unintelligibly, trying to simultaneously talk and chew. 

“You’re repulsive,” you tell him. You see Terezi sniff at the air _(goddamn you’ll never get used to her doing that. It’s better than the licking, you guess)_.

“Who’s this?” she simpers and John looks rightfully a little perturbed as you doubt the two brain cells he actually can rub together neglected to notice the red and white on the cane and the cherry tinted sunglasses. 

“This is John,” you say, wary.

“John,” she rolls it around in her mouth like she’s tasting it.

“Uh,” he trails off as her sightless eyes snap to him. “Nice to meet you.” You think about what he sounds like to her, with his sort of stupidly cute and boyish voice. She’s looking at the two of you like a cat with cream, so you are can guess. Just what you need. Another meddling friend. 

“Pizza?” she prompts.

You glance at him hesitantly, and although John looks a little out of his depth, he smiles and gives a minute shrug of his shoulder. 

“Yeah, come shoot the shit, best bro,” Gamzee drawls.

You heave a resigned sigh, mostly for appearances, and collapse on the carpeted floor in front of them. You grab a slice of pizza and it’s still hot so she must not have gotten here that long ago. John follows suite and it’s sort of funny how his long skinny limbs go everywhere when he sits down. You haven’t eaten anything all day, and you nearly die it’s so good, it’s cheesy nirvana, from the best place in town; a hole in the wall with old arcade games and seats that smell weird (they’re probably twice as old as you) and a broken soda machine that gives you a combination of everything instead of what you wanted. It all sort of resembles some garish 70’s nightmare, and it’s awesome. 

You chew thoughtfully, looking at Terezi. “You cut your hair,” you say. “I like it.”

She twirls a strand of bright orange around a finger and looks impishly pleased. “Thanks Kittykat.”

John snorts. 

You scowl at her. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

She sticks her tongue out at you, piercing and all.

“Wow,” John starts, “You could be like, the next member of Kiss or something.”

You groan. “Please tell me you don’t listen to Kiss. I think that’s actually worse than 90’s boy bands.” 

“KK, please,” Sollux says snottily, “I personally know the lyrics to all of Britney Spear’s songs because of you.”

John throws his head backs and laughs obnoxiously. He leans into you and smiles playfully. “Just when I thought your taste couldn't get any worse.”

You sneer in his face. “Shut up, N’ Sync,”

“Shut up, Destiny’s Child,” he snarks back, and you want to wipe that insolent little expression right off his face _(god, you hate the way he makes your pulse jump)_. 

“You genuinely like Con-Air and probably spend all your money on Slimer memorabilia, don’t even talk to me about taste,” you snap.

“Hey,” John looks affronted. “Con-Air is a work of art, don’t lie to yourself, man.”

“I think I would rather pull out all my teeth and the mangled nerves underneath like that Ren and Stimpy episode, gouge out my eyeballs using a spoon and then jam pencils into my aural canal, and maybe just disembowel myself to finish the job than hear that primitive shitstain’s name again. And yet here you are reminding me of it’s heinous existence in the world. Is that what you want, John? To find me lying in a pile of my own innards and teeth? Because that’s what could happen.”

“bluh bluh bluh,” he sticks his fingers into his ears. “My name is Karkat and I can probably quote The Notebook word for word and re-enact scenes from Titanic alone in my room.”

“You know what, fuckwad, I’m getting your damn movie,” you gripe, and push yourself up. You jam a finger in his insipid, grinning face. “Stay here,” then at the rest of them (you pointedly eye Terezi), “be nice.” 

***

Your name is **JOHN EGBERT** and you are a little **UNCOMFORTABLE** with way Karkat’s friend is looking at you. Even though she can’t see? You don’t know, but her smile is really sort of **FREAKY.** You glance forlornly at Karkat’s back. 

“No one gets to go into KK’s room except GZ,” the Sollux kid with the glasses says in his heavily lisping voice, “because he’s a prissy diva.”

“I heard that!” Karkat shouts, voice loud and scratchy. “Shut your skinny Chinese ass up before I come out there and shut it for you!” A door snaps shut. Sollux rolls his eyes.

“So boytoy,” Terezi pipes up and okay. Wow. You blink at her and Sollux is pinching the bridge of his nose and the one who you think the wheelchair belongs to, Tavros? Yeah, Tavros is shaking his head at her. Gamzee continues to look stoned out of his mind, which you are starting to think might just be his permanent state of being. He’s a little confusing. Or at least the way Karkat looks at him with such blatant affection is. Not like, annoying or anything. Just confusing. 

“How did you meet our dear Karkat?” she asks.

“Heh,” you grin, “he started yelling at me and I rescued him from certain death by boss.”

“How valiant,” she leans forward conspiratorially, peering at you over the top of her sunglasses with cloudy eyes.

“There’s something flushed in the air,” she sing-songs. “I can smell it.”

This girl is weird. Dave would probably like her.

“Huh?” you ask.

“Terezi-” Sollux interrupts warningly, but she cuts him off,

“he likes you,” she beams, giving you an eyeful of teeth.

Well yeah, you should hope he likes you! You like him too. Karkat’s sort of mean and angry at everything and has no concept of volume control, but you kind of think his rants are really funny (he would kill you if you said that, though) and you have a sneaking suspicion he’s a big softie under all that temper. Anyone who likes cheesy romance as much as he does has got to be a complete sap. 

She seems to know what you’re thinking, because she shakes her head and clarifies, “ _like_ likes you.”

Um. 

What?

Your eyebrows are probably at your hairline and your eyes are wide and your mouth is an ‘o’ and you see Gamzee’s expression go sort of sharp all of the sudden, staring at you, and _Karkat likes you?_

No way. You mean, sometimes he looks at you a little strange, and now that you think about it the way you antagonize each other might be a little flirtatious, but only if it was with a _girl_.

_(You just met and yeah, you can’t deny you sort of clicked right away and you can’t even really explain it, you want to know him more, you want to watch bad movies together because you like the way he takes everything so seriously and you want to know why he got so upset when you asked him about college, and you sort of want him to look at you the same way he looks at Gamzee, and, ugh, wait.)_

Instead of saying all that, you jerk your hands up and go, “I’m not gay!” it comes out sort of squeaky, and you clear your throat. 

“Karkat’s just a friend. Buddy. Pal.”

Sollux sighs and Gamzee is still eyeing you in a way that makes you really nervous and Tavros looks troubled, but Terezi just purses her perfectly black lips, “Oh really?” and sniffs. You shift uncomfortably. “Your loss then,” she muses, “Karkitty’s great in bed,” a vicious grin, “very aggressive, I’m sure you can imagine.”

Sollux makes a scandalized noise and Gamzee's nodding like he _knows_ and your ears are hot and you've turned bright red, because yeah, you can imagine and _(nope nope nope nope nope)_.

Terezi snickers and that’s when Karkat chooses to emerge holding a VHS copy of But I’m a Cheerleader. 

You jump to your feet and he sees the expression on your face and eyes the rest of them suspiciously. Karkat hands you the movie and you reach out to take it, but he holds back. “If you damage or lose this,” he says, “I will cut off your dick with a kitchen knife, preserve it in a jar, and put it on display to warn all future borrowers; the label will read ‘Here lies John Egbert's dick. He shouldn't have messed with Karkat’s shit.’”

You smile, albeit halfheartedly. “I’ll be sure to let Rose know.” You shift from foot to foot. “I should probably…go?” 

“Oh,” he lets go of the movie. “Yeah.” 

You studiously ignore the eyes (both functioning and not) of his friends as you leave the room.

“Thanks for the ride,” he says as you slip on your Converse. 

“Thanks for the movie,” you reply, and he’s looking at you funny and you know you’re acting weird and you feel awkward and embarrassed and bad, and maybe if you _were_ into…that, you would be into him. He’s not unattractive, or anything, from a purely objective, bro standpoint. 

You mean, yeah he’s sort of short and stocky, but in a way that makes you think he’s probably pretty fit under those baggy clothes. He's probably stronger than you. For all that he makes fun of your teeth, his are sort of oddly spaced and pointy, but he’s got thick, wild hair and eyes so big and dark they don’t even look brown, and they're pretty even with the shadows underneath them. He’s got _really_ nice skin, all caramel colored, and yeah, you might be into him if you were into that, which you’re definitely not. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, and actually sounds concerned, and wow, your face is burning. 

[John ==> Abscond]

“Um, yeah. Bye Karkat!” You manage to stammer, and then promptly book it the hell out of there before he can respond.

You feel sort of sick the entire drive home and you don’t know why.

***

Your name is **KARKAT VANTAS** and three weeks after the **VAGUELY DISCONCERTING** goodbye at the door of your apartment, John has still not turned up. 

This is why you **DON’T LEND PEOPLE YOUR SHIT.**

_(This is why you don’t fall in love with people.)_

***

3:22:57 AM carcinoGeneticist: HEY.  
3:23:03 AM carcinoGeneticist: I KNOW THAT BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO GRASP OF DAY AND NIGHT BECAUSE YOU CAN’T SEE SHIT,  
3:23:11 AM carcinoGeneticist: IT IS ACTUALLY LIKELY YOU ARE ONLINE AND HAVEN’T JUST LEFT YOUR ACCOUNT LOGGED IN.  
3:23:17 AM carcinoGeneticist: SO LET ME ASK YOU A QUESTION, YOU CACKLING SHE-WITCH.  
3:23:20 AM carcinoGeneticist: AND I’LL PAY YOU SOME RESPECT AND NOT ASK *IF* YOU DID, BECAUSE WE BOTH KNOW YOU DID,  
3:23:29 AM carcinoGeneticist: BUT I WILL ASK YOU WHAT YOU SAID *TO* JOHN.

3:24:13 AM gallowsCalibrator: ST1LL H4V1NG TROUBL3 SL33P1NG?

3:24:17 AM carcinoGeneticist: TEREZI, WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HIM?

3:24:23 AM gallowsCalibrator: 1M HURT K4RK1TTY  
3:24:27 AM gallowsCalibrator: 4LTHOUGH YOUR 4CUS4T1ONS 4R3 NOT UNFOUND3D  
3:24:32 AM gallowsCalibrator: BUT DON’T WORRY YOUR 4DOR4BLOODTH1RSTY L1TTL3 H34D  
3:24:33 AM gallowsCalibrator: 3V3RYTH1NG W1LL WORK OUT FOR TH3 B3ST.

3:24:34 AM carcinoGeneticist: LET ME GUESS. YOU CAN SMELL IT?

3:24:36 AM gallowsCalibrator: Y3S  
3:24:38 AM gallowsCalibrator: H4V3 1 3V3R B33N WRONG?

3:25:06 AM carcinoGeneticist: …

3:25:11 AM gallowsCalibrator: H4V3 1?

3:25:25 AM carcinoGeneticist: no.

3:25:29 AM gallowsCalibrator: 1 TH1NK TH4TS 4LL TH3 3V1D3NC3 YOU NEED >:]

***

Your name is **JOHN EGBERT** and you are sort of having a **CRISIS.**

You’re having a crisis because Karkat likes you. 

The fact keeps niggling at the back of your brain and you really should just go to Hollywood and return his movie and annoy him like you usually do, because it shouldn't bother you and you shouldn't care.

But it does, and you do, and the tape remains sitting on your dresser and the thought makes itself present at two in the morning when your room is dark except for the city light through the window and _“Karkat’s great in bed, very aggressive, I’m sure you can imagine”_ echoes around your head and you’re too hot and your breathing is short and you've got a hand down your briefs and you can’t help thinking about him because _god,_ can you _imagine_. He’s a ball of spitfire all the time, and the thought of that intensity being applied to _other_ things makes you feel like you got punched in the gut, makes you want to squirm.

Fuuuuuck. 

***

After nineteen days of avoiding Karkat, the tape has moved from sitting in your room to sitting in the passenger’s seat of your car, but you’re still not doing anything about it. You haven’t felt this emotionally constipated since you broke up with Vriska.

It’s Friday and you’re tired after another post Organic Chemistry bout of indecision, where after tortuous minutes of clenching and unclenching your hands on the steering wheel and avoiding the accusing eyes of Natasha Lyonne in a pink dress, you still drive past that crappy strip mall and straight home. 

Your apartment smells like Spaghetti when you open the door, and you dump your backpack unceremoniously on the couch, where it knocks a few of Dave’s shitty swords onto the ground. Your place is like, 80% random crap that he says is cooler than yours so it has more of a right to lay around. He doesn't even go to Renaissance Festivals or LARP or anything, so you don’t really know why he has so many of them.

You follow the voices coming from the kitchen and pause in the doorway to see Rose, immaculately dressed as always in a small black dress and low heels with straps. She’s got her black nailed hands on her slim hips and her short blond hair pushed back by a headband, fringe sprung free. Dave’s leaning against the stove, the shades you got him when you were thirteen obscuring his eyes and wearing his Beastie Boys shirt, skin and hair practically fluorescent in their whiteness. 

They’re arguing over how much you should pre-salt food _(if you could call it arguing, Dave hardly ever raises his voice above a monotone drawl and Rose prefers to gain ground by backhanded jabs rather than volume. Practically the antitheses to Karkat)._

_(Oh. right.)_

“Guys,” you say, and it barely comes out. Rose turns, just now noticing you. 

“Oh, John,” she starts, but pauses. Her eyes narrow. “Is something the matter?”

“I think I might be a little bit gay,” you say, absently.

Dave chokes on a spoonful of marinara. 

***

You’re sitting on the now swordless couch, staring into the tomatoey depths of a steaming bowl of pasta. You didn't really mean to spill your guts at Rose’s “Why don’t you start from the beginning,” after Dave’s “Is this about that angry kid you've been mooning over?” but here you are, nevertheless, Karkat related guts promptly spilled. Times like these are when you are incredibly grateful to have Rose as your friend _(not that you're not always incredibly grateful)_ , because she’s sitting prim with her hands folded in her lap and she’s got her psychoanalysis face on, which most of the time just annoys the hell out of you and Dave, but is currently the only thing keeping you calm. You and Dave would just devolve into no-homo jokes (ironically, for him, whatever that even means. You think it’s surpassed any of the word’s literal meaning and morphed into a state of being) to get rid of how probably awkward the conversation would be, despite him being your best friend. 

“I’m really not that surprised,” she says lightly, and your head jerks up.

“How could you say that, Rose!” you exclaim, betrayed.

“Don’t give me the kicked puppy expression, John, you know I was immune by age eleven,” she rolls her eyes. “Anyone with that much unfounded aversion to Brokeback Mountain has got to be repressing something. I thought it might just be some internalized daddy issues, but your relationship with your father remains as disconcertingly healthy as always.”

“Oh god,” you rub the heels of your hands into your eyes until you see stars, glasses pushed up into your hair. “I didn't even think of dad. He wants grandkids!” You’re manic, eyes fixed on a blurry Rose. “I was going to marry a nice girl that looked like Arwen or Dr. Scully and have tons of children!” 

“John. Take a deep breath,” Rose says evenly. You obediently breath deeply in through your mouth and out your nose.

“Good. Now, I know for a fact you were head over heels for, excuse my french, that bitch Vriska.” 

“That’s true,” you admit, slowly. “And I still think girls are great. Boobs are great.”

“Amen,” Dave breaks his silence.

“Yes, I think we can all agree on that,” Rose says. “John, sexuality is a spectrum and there are a myriad of identities on it. It’s not black and white, either/or, heterosexual or homosexual. You don’t have to choose a label for yourself if you don’t want to, just, and I risk sounding terribly cliche, but I feel it does need to be said; do what your heart tells you.”

“Heh,” you smile weakly. “That sounds like something he would say.”

“So are you going to return that movie?” she asks, as if it’s not a loaded question. 

You don’t answer for a long time.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what year this is set. Like, 2004? Even though Brokeback Mountain came out in 2005.
> 
> Also, I'm doublemobiius on tumblr for any who want to know.


	4. One in Every Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter refused to be written, but here you go.

Your name is **KARKAT VANTAS** and you **DO NOT DO THINGS HALFWAY**. This includes **INSOMNIA**. 

You have slept a total of **FIVE HOURS** in the last **FOUR DAYS**. 

Because you are the opposite of emotionally stunted, you also do not like people halfway.

Consequently, your every waking moment (more than there should be) has been spent **AGONIZING** over said object of your affections; the light of your life, the fire of your your loins, your sin, your soul, _(god you hate that book, you can’t look at it without the violent impulse to locate the nearest bottle of bleach to drown yourself with)_ **JOHN EGBERT**. 

It is, fortunately, a Saturday. John doesn't have class on Saturdays. Thus, a break from the stomach ulcer inducing anticipation of waiting for him to show up, and the subsequent bitter disappointment when he doesn't. You can finally work in peace, however peaceful someone can be with Jack in the near vicinity.

Terezi said something. It’s not your fault. That’s what you keep telling yourself. 

It’s not helping you sleep.

_(It’s always your fault.)_

It’s a Saturday, John doesn't have class, so there’s no reason for him to be here this late.

But when you look up from the Mills & Boon you've been sneakily reading behind the counter, he is.

He’s there, looking like a nervous fucking wreck. His hair has disproved E=mc2, and is pulling some true Dragon Ball Z shit. One of his shoes is untied. He’s turning your tape anxiously around in his hands. 

You forgive him on the spot and you hate yourself for it. 

You stare.

“Hi Karkat,” he says, hesitant, and you decide you like his customary irritating enthusiasm more. 

“How nice of you to grace us with you presence, John,” you bite out, because you are a spiteful asshole and even if you seem to be incapable of staying mad at him, it doesn't mean you don’t hurt.

“Sorry,” he says, guilt written across his face.

“We’re about to close.”

“I know,” he wets his lips. “I’m not here to rent anything, I’m just here to see you.” 

You think your face twitches a little bit.

“Uh,” he stammers, visibly backtracking. “To return this to you. And. I was wondering if you’re maybe hungry?” His knuckles are white from gripping the tape.

_What?_

You think your eyes might fall out of your skull. Your insides are being shredded by angry, flesh eating winged insects. _Is he asking you out on a date?_

Don’t be pathetic. He’s just being nice.

“I could eat,” you grudgingly answer.

John smiles and you feel like you've been stranded in the Sahara for three weeks and you just stumbled across an oasis.

“Donuts?” 

There’s a donut shop down the street; it’s open until questioningly early hours in the morning and it has terrible fluorescent lighting and the color scheme reminds you of pond scum, but they have the best fucking donuts and drip coffee in the _world_ and there’s no way you can say no.

You scowl at him. “Fine. I’m done here anyway. I’ll be right back, dickbag, don’t go anywhere,” you order.

“Scouts honor,” he salutes.

You sneer. "Please don’t tell me you were a boy scout.” 

“I had the most badges in my troop and was elected patrol leader every time.”

“Oh my god,” you groan and abscond to the break room before you can give that any more thought. 

***

10:06:54 PM carcinoGeneticist: HEY SHITHOLE.

10:07:00: PM twinArmageddons: 2up.

10:07:09 PM carcinoGeneticist: JOHN FINALLY SHOWED UP. HE ASKED ME TO GET DONUTS WITH HIM.

10:07:15 PM twinArmageddons: how iintere2tiing.

10:07:28 PM carcinoGeneticist: DOES THAT SOUND LIKE A DATE?

10:07:36 PM twinArmageddons: ii don’t know CG why are you a2kiing me?

10:07:42 PM carcinoGeneticist: YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND.

10:07:50 PM twinArmageddons: AA liive2 halfway acro22 the world we don’t have a lot of opportuniitiie2 two go on date2.  
10:07:54 PM twinArmageddons: al2o he doe2n’t play for that team.

10:08:03 PM carcinoGeneticist: I KNOW.  
10:08:09 PM carcinoGeneticist: YET I STILL CLING TO MY OVERLY ROMANTIC IDEALS AND YEARN FOR HIM LIKE THE DISGUSTINGLY PATHETIC PIECE OF CUM STAINED KLEENEX THAT I AM. I DIDN'T EVEN MAKE IT TO THE GARBAGE CAN. I LIE FORGOTTEN BY THE LEG OF YOUR DESK NEXT TO THE TAB CANS AND FRITO PACKETS AND A MOLDING PIECE OF CHEESE TOAST THAT’S STUCK TO IT’S PLATE. THE REMNANTS OF A THIRTEEN YEAR OLD BOY’S INADEQUATE, TWO MINUTE FUMBLING IN THE DARK TO BAD PORN THAT GAVE HIS COMPUTER A VIRUS THAT STOLE ALL OF HIS PARENT’S CREDIT CARD INFORMATION.

10:08:13 PM twinArmageddons: you’re gro22.

10:08:16 PM carcinoGeneticist: YES, THAT’S WHAT I WAS GETTING AT.  
10:08:20 PM carcinoGeneticist: I GUESS I’LL BE HOME LATER TONIGHT. TELL TC.

10:08:23 PM twinArmageddons: he’2 at GC’2 place.

10:08:27 PM carcinoGeneticist: I THOUGHT SHE DIDN'T WANT HIM OVER THERE?

10:08:31 PM twinArmageddons: gue22 2he changed her miind.

10:08:35 PM carcinoGeneticist: FOR CHRIST'S SAKE.

10:08:39 PM twinArmageddons: riight? okay ii’m leaviing now. have fun. u2e protectiion!

10:08:42 PM carcinoGeneticist: GO SUCK A FUCK.

***

You punch your card and slip on your dad’s old denim jacket. It’s still a little broad in the shoulders. Out of habit, you run a finger around the rusted peace sign pinned on the lapel. 

John’s waiting for you in the front, wrapping tape from the dispenser on the counter around his fingers. He straightens up when he sees you, smiling shyly.

It’s murky outside when you leave, store windows glowing orange in the dark night, sky a hazy, bruised purple from light pollution. You walk in silence, and it’s miraculously comfortable; just the the soles of both your shoes beating an uneven rhythm on the wet sidewalk and cars driving past. He walks too close, and every time his arm brushes yours it feels like you've grabbed a low voltage electric fence.

“Hey, Karkat?” John starts, voice hushed. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” 

Your breath catches.

“Mind your own business.”

“When I was younger I wanted to be a magician.”

You snort. “That explains a lot.”

“Hey, c’mon, tell me!”

“It’s stupid.”

“No dream is stupid, Karkat,” John says wisely, and you scoff. 

“If you laugh, I swear to god they’ll never find your body.” 

“I promise I won’t laugh.” 

It’s insignificant and embarrassing because it’ll never happen. No one even knows except Gamzee. But you think maybe it would be okay to tell John, because for some stupid reason, you want to trust him. You shouldn't.

“I wanted to be a,” you hunch down into your jacket and watch your feet.

_(one in front of the other, one in front of the other)_

“A doctor,” you mumble.

You wait for the laugh, the incredulity, but it doesn't come.

“A doctor?” John sounds delighted. “That’s awesome! What type?”

“I guess I always thought oncology would be an interesting field.”

“Cancer? Why?”

You shrug. “When I was in middle school I did a project on Rachel Carson and read Silent Spring, and I guess I just latched onto the chapter she talked about carcinogens. The process of something as intrinsic as cell division being altered to produce malignancy is pretty cool. Whether it’s Warburg’s theory of lack of cell respiration and subsequent fermentation to create energy, or chromosome damage, mutation, hormone disturbance, whatever, we still don’t know a lot about it, even if we've made significant progress. I guess."

“Jeez, why didn't you-”

You stiffen and he cuts himself off. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, again.

“No,” you breath out sharply through your nose. “It’s fine.” 

You hate talking about this shit. It’s not any easier after three years than it was on the first day. You've just learned to deal with it.

Karkat Vantas, king of rolling with the punches.

You rub your eyes.

Or not, really.

“There’s a fuckton of reasons why I didn't go to college when I finished high school. Being poor as dirt was one of them. Hating everyone was another.”

You pause and he waits.

“My mom died at the end of senior year and I,” your voice goes tight. “I just couldn't really do anything.”

“How did it happen?”

“Aortic aneurysm in her abdomen.”

It had ruptured while you were at school. You found her cold on the checkered linoleum floor of your kitchen. The kettle was screaming.

“What was her name?”

“Ahdieh,” The name feels foreign in your mouth after not saying it for so long.

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Where are you from?”

And you’re angry again.

“Don’t ask me that question,” you bark, and John’s steps falter for a second. At least he has the sense to know when you’re actually pissed. “I’m not _from_ anywhere except here. I’m American. I was born in America. I’m a U.S. fucking citizen. The land of the free and the home of the brave, blah blah blah.” You realize you’re yelling.

“Okay!” John holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture and it makes you even angrier. “There’s no need to get so defensive!”

“Yes there fucking is,” you snarl, “I’m tired of people _assuming_ that if I have darker skin than theirs, oh, I _must_ be from somewhere else! Not everyone in this country is white, John!

“Karkat,” John says, earnest. “I really didn't mean it like that.”

“I know,” you pinch your eyes with your thumb and forefinger. “Sorry for freaking out, just like, ask about someone’s ethnicity, or heritage or whatever bullshit, just not that.” You sigh. “My mom was from Iran, my dad was from Chicago.”

“Oh,” he says. “Can you speak a different language?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m pretty familiar with Farsi, though I wouldn't say I can speak it.” You’re coming up on the donut shop now. It’s fluorescent sign hums and flickers. “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Enough interrogating, we’re here.”

“I can’t help it Karkat, you’re an enigma,” he grins, elbowing you in the side. You shove him back and he stumbles.

“I’ll show you a fucking enigma.”

“That doesn't even make sense,” he laughs and you push open the door with a shoulder. The bell rings. You’re enveloped in the scent of pastries and warmth. It’s just as unfortunately lit and colored as you remember. The teenage girl at the counter looks up from inspecting her long, red nails. Christ, those things could kill a man. 

“Welcome to donut shop,” she says, accent thick and Asian. “What can I do for you,” she gives you both a once over and a disconcerting, dimply smile, “boys?”

“What are you getting?” John asks.

“Jelly.” It’s what you always get. He looks at you with astonishingly wide eyes. “What?” you snap.

“You’re like, the first person I've met that likes those too.” 

More proof that you and John are, in fact, soul mates and your love has been written in the stars.

"You obviously haven’t met the right people.”

“You pay together?” the girl interrupts. 

“No,” you say, just as John goes, 

“Yes.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “I can take care of myself, Egbert, I’m not a girl.”

A blush creeps up his neck. “I know.” 

You stare at each other stubbornly for a minute before the girl clacks her fingernails on the counter and you huff out a, “fine, it’s your fucking money.”

John gives you a hundred watt smile. “Anything else?”

“Coffee,” you grumble. “Black.”

He scrunches up his nose, but orders anyways. You wander over to one of the seats by the windows and sit, slouching down into the booth and watching rain fall out of the dirty window.

A pastry laden plate and a cup are slid across the table and John collapses into the spot across from you. 

You go for the coffee immediately, downing half the thing in one go and scalding your mouth. Dear lord, this stuff is better than sex.

“Thanks,” you sigh in relief as you feel the caffeine sink into your system.

“You really shouldn't drink that stuff this late, it’ll keep you up,” John states. “When was the last time you slept, man? You look worse than some of the thesis students at my school.”

You sulkily take a bite out of your donut instead of answering. 

John’s knee is bouncing underneath the table. He starts stacking the creamers in pyramid formation, but is missing one to complete the structure. You swallow and put the pastry down. 

“Hey,” you start.

“Hmmm?” John doesn't look at you, instead marching the half & half cups across the scratched plastic table like little soldiers going into battle. 

You watch as the oily surface of your coffee shakes and you kick his foot with yours. The jiggling stops.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did.” 

You narrow your eyes at him and he gives you a strained smile. He’s rolling one of the little cups in between his fingers.

“Is this a date?” 

You regret it the instant it’s out of your mouth. 

John’s face turns bright red and he does this half-shrug thing which is mostly just him hunching into his shoulders and he’s still not looking at you.

_(why do you always have to open your goddamned mouth, why do you always have to ruin everything, why can’t you just shut the fuck up for once, let sleeping dogs lie-)_

“I've never been on a date with a guy before,” John says, voice weak. He’s avoiding the question.

Well at least he hasn't walked out or punched you in the face yet, so here’s hoping the situation can be salvaged.

“I've never been on a date before,” you offer.

That gets him to look at you. “Seriously?”

Oh god, this discussion is happening.

“Yeah,” you grimace. “The only people I've, uh, been with are Gamzee and Terezi. GZ and I were fused at the hip in high school and it was pretty much this whole fucking awful codependent spiral of misery, and Terezi, well, we just got really drunk one time and shit sort of happened.” 

That’s not really the half, but doing it justice could take hours. “What about you?”

John traces the scratches on the table with the tip of a finger. “Well I had a huge crush on Rose for forever, but then our parents got married and she came out, so. During senior year I dated this girl Vriska, but I guess we were just really different, I mean, she didn't have a lot of money so she would always want me to take her out nice places and buy her stuff and I didn't really mind, but eventually I realized that even if she was really fun, she was completely manipulative and a total ego-maniac and all of my friends hated her.”

You snort. “Didn't have a lot of money, huh? I’m sensing a trend here. You like slumming it, Egbert? Got some kind of hero complex? Sugar daddy kink?”

John goes a few shades darker and opens and closes his mouth like a fish.

“I’m jerking you around, fuckass,” you grin, showing off all your sharp teeth.

John stares.

“What?” you snap.

“It’s just,” he says, bemused. “I think that’s the first time I've seen you smile.”

You scowl. “You didn't answer the question.”

“Do you want it to be?” he evades.

You arch an eyebrow. 

John swallows thickly. “I. Yeah, I think I might like it to be.”

***

Two cups of coffee later the rain has let up and you leave, _(“can we go?” “You’re not even finished.” “I know but that girl at the counter has been looking at us this entire time and it’s weirding me out.”)_ and as you walk back the space between you is infinitesimally smaller than before. Whether it’s from nerves or something else, you’re both quiet. 

You have that feeling you get when you’re on a precipice looking down at a great height and it scares you and makes your chest all tight. You know you wanted this but you’re also really, really confused. 

You don’t give it voice until he’s pulled up to your place. The passenger’s seat is worn and comfortable and NPR is playing quietly over the radio. You sit in silence for an immeasurable length of time before you finally say something.

“I don’t get it.”

John taps a beat on the leg of his pants. “Don’t get what?” 

“You, this, us!” You throw your hands up, temper getting the better of you, and John jumps a little. “You must be a complete fucking masochist to want to do this. I’m mean to you all the time. I’m the farthest thing from relationship material someone could imagine. You don’t get it, I’m bitter, miserable, can’t seem to navigate basic social interaction without pissing someone off, my friends are a bunch of lunatics, I’m probably going to spend the rest of my life working shitty minimum wage jobs and I hate myself and you’re…” you trail off.

“I’m what?”

You look at your lap. “You’re you.” 

“Kar-”

“I just,” you interrupt. “John I just really can’t see this work-”

“Karkat, shut up!” John raises his voice and your mouth snaps closed. He fixes you with a determined stare, and _god his eyes are beautiful._

“Listen, okay? I don’t care if you’re not perfect, of whatever relationship material is, because I’ve tried wanting that and it just doesn't work. Yeah, you’re mean to me, but I mostly just think that’s funny, and Karkat, you make me laugh and I like arguing about dumb movies with you, and you care. A lot. About your friends and about everything, even if you act like you don’t and up until a few weeks ago I thought I was straight. I don’t really know how to do this. But I think you’re really, really great.”

“Oh,” you say intelligibly.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah.”

“I still think you’re stupid.”

His lips quirk and you’re looking at each other and you think this is probably when you’re supposed to kiss. 

John looks like he wants to, but he doesn’t. And you don’t either, and when the moment draws on for too long, you clear your throat and dig around in your pocket for the napkin with your phone number and your ICQ handle and UIN. 

“Here,” you shove it in his hands, and he looks at you questioningly. “I have to uh…go.”

“Okay,” John says slowly, indecisive. 

“Bye,” you climb out of the car and make it to your door, a litany of _stupid, stupid, stupid, why didn't you kiss him, you blithering piece of horseshit_ going through your head before you hear a door slam and a “Hey, wait!” and you turn and John is standing in front of you with the napkin clutched in his hand. 

He steps closer and you can see the goosebumps on his arms from the cold _(idiot’s going to get sick if he doesn't wear a coat in this weather)_. He runs a hand through his hair nervously. “Um.”

“This is fucking ridiculous,” you growl, and you’re tired of not touching him, you want to be touching him all the time, so you slip a hand around his neck and he stoops to your height, and his eyes are incredibly wide as you lift your chin and you kiss him. 

You kiss him and it’s nothing more than his soft lips against your own slightly chapped ones, damp at the seam of his mouth. His glasses bump your nose. He smells soapy and boyish. The nape of his neck is soft with baby hairs and you rub your thumb over them and feel him shiver imperceptibly. 

It’s chaste, slightly awkward, and wonderful.

“Gosh,” he says as you part, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, the biggest, goofiest smile stretched across his face.

Maybe you smile a little bit too. Maybe. “Call me, dumbass.”

“Okay,” he sighs into you and that feeling in your chest pulls a little tighter. “Bye Karkat.”

“Bye John.”

You watch until his car’s tail lights are pinpricks in the distance. 

***

12:28:46 AM ghostyTrickster: karkat, will you be my boyfriend?

12:28:58 AM carcinoGeneticist: HOW MANY TIMES WERE YOU DROPPED ON YOUR HEAD AS A CHILD, YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER IMBECILE?  
12:29:03 AM carcinoGeneticist: OF COURSE.

12:29:08 AM ghostyTrickster: cool!

***

That night you dream of wind and a chessboard planet and the color blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No but think of little john in a boy scout uniform. Think of them ALL in little boy scout uniforms. John would be the leader and he would get them hopelessly lost because he gets too distracted with all the cool animals and nature stuff he finds, and Karkat would take everything way too seriously and pack too many backup supplies so he slows down the entire group and does nothing but yell at John for breaking the rules even though his excessive cursing is worse and Dave would barely participate and put in minimum effort and act like he’s way too cool for plants and survival skills and stuff cause he lives in the city but he’s the one that figures out how to get back to camp and light a fire and pitch the tent when Karkat and John are tired and scared and just want to go home. 
> 
> baby ot3 feels help
> 
> Adieh is an Iranian name that roughly means follower/covenant, which I used for the Disciple, since she is my humanstuck!headcanon mom for Karkat. The Signless is his dad and Kankri and Meulin are the annoying cousins. 
> 
> Damara works at a donut shop because I can.


	5. Cat Lover (the worst kind of Melmacian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in the 5th chapter, I said: Let there be pr0n.  
> And so it was done.
> 
> Unbeta'd: possible grammatical errors, semicolon abuse, and weird tense shifts ahead. Ye be warned. 
> 
> This chapter was originally 9k+ and it's still really long and mostly nonsense.

Your name is **JOHN EGBERT** and you have a **BOYFRIEND**.

How weird is that? You mean, it’s **GOOD WEIRD** and not **BAD WEIRD** , cause Karkat is **PRETTY AWESOME**. But still! 

You are dating someone with boy parts. 

Weird.

And sort of awkward; you haven’t been in a relationship for four years and it’s blatantly obvious that neither of you really know how to go about it. You’re constantly having to remind yourself that you don’t know him as well as you think you do, that you met like, a little over a month ago. But it’s nice. 

You spend the week after that night in front of his apartment racking up both your phone bills because you have unreasonable amounts of coursework and exams coming up and you've been spending pretty much all your time in the lab. Karkat works a lot and you don’t get to see him as much as you suddenly find you want to. 

You drop into Hollywood whenever you can (usually after you start nodding off and a microscope nearly takes one of your eyes out) and Karkat grouches at you for distracting him when he’s on the job, and you stay until Noir starts giving you glares a little more pointed than usual. You think he’s catching on.

Eventually one of your professors tells you to take a day off, and you guess she’s probably right; you've started having The Blob-esque nightmares where your cell cultures go horribly wrong, devouring the entire campus and most of the student body. A three headed Martha Stewart and Nazi Paula Deen were involved too, but that’s besides the point. 

The point being, your willingness might also have something to do with the fact that Karkat doesn’t have work on Sundays.

***

When he opens the door, he’s wearing boxers and a black t-shirt and you are instantly aware of the peppering of small moles across his skin. 

“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you out of your work clothes,” you ingeniously say, voice muffled by the scarf you have pulled up to your glasses. 

“Hey,” Karkat says, somewhere between amused and exasperated, eyeing the coordinating powder blue, puffball adorned hat. “Nice ensemble.”

You hold up your matching mittened hands. “Rose has a penchant for knitting and it’s freezing out,” Karkat moves aside to let you in, “I think it’s going to snow.”

His apartment is warm and smells faintly of weed and take-out. It’s broken in, and you briefly spare a thought for how much more comfortable you are here than those times you spent vacation at Rose’s mansion. 

Karkat frowns. “It’s been clear all week.”

“Smells like it,” you tap your nose. 

“Well I sure fucking hope not. Snow is like the sloughed off, flaky old person skin of our planet. Usually I’d ask our own weather guru, but Nepeta’s whiskered Tav off to their weekly geek role-playing orgy, a.k.a Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Man, how can you hate snow? Have you never had a really awesome snowball fight?” 

“Have you ever had to commute across town without a car in that white fuckery? It’s enough having to deal with people acting as if god himself came down and lightly dusted them with his celestial dandruff. Then it either turns into snow-ma-fucking-geddon and the roads have black shit on them and there’s big ass trees and power lines falling everywhere, or it’s like a bad relationship; nice at first, but eventually becomes this crap colored slush that’s there less and less until it’s pretty much gone except for the sad little patches you see out of the corner of your eye like stuff they forgot in your-”

“Karkat,” you stop him, ducking your head into his space to bump your noses together. “Shut up. Your lack of holiday cheer is seriously bringing me down.” He grumbles wordlessly, but presses against you nonetheless. 

This is okay. You’ve done this part before. 

You cup his face with your hands, fingers cold from being outside, stark against the heat of his skin. He sighs against your lips. The kiss has lost some of the tentativeness from last time; a little longer, a little wetter. He sucks on your bottom lip as you pull away and you feel it right down to your toes. Karkat looks up at you through dark eyelashes, smug. 

Someone is shouting in muffled Cantonese. 

“Is that Sollux?” you ask, and the moment is broken. 

Karkat pinches the bridge of his nose. “Some amateur probably fucked up his raid. I’ll be right back, the last thing I need is the damn neighbors complaining again. And people say I’m loud.”

Karkat marches up to Sollux’s door, banging it with a fist to announce his presence before barging in.

You take the chance to look around. Above the patchy, yellow couch there are drawings tacked to the wall, half-sketched comic panels, inked character sheets and odd creatures, caricatured doodles of friends; a raging Karkat, Gamzee smoking from a bong and some profusely sweating guy with long hair. It’s stylized but impressive, and you guess that this is Tavros’s handiwork. Surrounding the couch are stacks of YA, a plethora of Redwall and Terry Pratchett. 

You wander, poke your head into the kitchen to see haphazard piles of junk mail, a horse calendar covered in scribbled notes and post-it’s. 

And a clown.

There’s also a clown.

“Shit,” you swear, and resist the urge to scream like a little girl and run. The thing is in full get up, with the shoes and the striped socks and the funny pants. It’s like it crawled straight from your traumatized subconscious. 

It turns from the open fridge to peer at you from over a bright red, round nose. Face paint should not be that sinister, not even on a clown.

" _Bolillo,_ " it drawls, and that’s _Gamzee_. Okay. Still terrifying, but at least you don’t think you’re about to be ax murdered. “You’re up and looking a little pale.”

You surreptitiously wipe your sweating palms on the leg of your pants. “You just surprised me, haha.”

Gamzee blinks at you slowly and closes the refrigerator. “Well, I’ve been meanin’ to get my talk on with a brother, and here you are.” He waves gloved fingers in the air. “Miracles.”

“Talk?” What would Gamzee want to talk to you about?

“A little birdy told me something ‘bout you and KK.” 

“Is this going to be the ‘you break his heart, I break your neck’ talk?” You smile, uncertain, and Gamzee beams. 

“Well it’s my job as a best motherfuckin’ friend, yeah?” He steps close and lays a heavy hand on your shoulder. “But no.”

You look up and Gamzee’s face is slack, eyes dark and clear; momentarily free from the perpetual drug induced haze you’ve seen so far. “I’ll break a lot more than your neck.” 

No matter how cliche that line was, you don’t think he’s joking. 

“I’m really not planning on it.”

He nods his head, grin sliding easily back into place. “I’m wicked glad we reached this understandin’. You’re all right for a white boy, all right…”

“Um,” you squint. “Thanks.” 

Karkat appears in the doorway and glances between you knowingly. “You’re going to be late for work, you dumb clown. What will the children do?” 

Gamzee’s face twists into an expression of concern. “Aw man, I wouldn’t want to let none of them down. I better get my move on.” Karkat stops him before he goes, sighing and straightening his crooked bow tie. 

When the door snaps shut, you let out the breath you weren’t aware you’d been holding.

“You alright?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“I hate clowns.”

“You and everyone in their right mind.”

“No, you don’t get it, my dad thought I liked them for years so he would buy all these circus knickknacks and leave them in weird places around the house, and then on my eighth birthday he hired one and - you know what, I don’t even want to think about it. Let’s change the subject,” you shudder.

Karkat rolls his eyes. “What movie did you bring?”

“Logan’s Run.” 

“You continue to surprise me, Egbert. Who knew you were capable of making good cinematic decisions? I was expecting Armageddon or something.” 

“Hey-”

“No,” he interrupts. “That clusterfuck is indefensible, you reprobate. Want popcorn?”

“Duh, you can’t have movie night without popcorn. What’d you pick then?”

Karkat pulls two bags from the cupboard and sticks one in the microwave. “I figured we could watch Moonstruck since you are a total Cage fanboy and he's actually okay in that.”

“Is that the one with Cher?” You wrinkle your nose.

“Yes, and she’s fucking great, so stop making that face.” 

Karkat pours the popcorn into a large bowl, walks down the hall to his room, you following on his heels. He pauses minutely, hand on the doorknob, before turning it and going in. 

“Woah,” you say. 

“I know, for someone with pretty much no money, I still manage to have a lot of shit. Most of it I nicked in high school, to be honest.” 

The rooms small size and lack of shelving might make the amount of books seem more extreme, but it’s a lot. Mostly extremely cheesy looking romance novels, pages foxed and dog eared, tape holding detached covers fast. Some medical stuff. A _lot_ of videocassettes.

There’s not many other things in the room. A frameless bed, a dresser that’s seen better days, a tiny tube TV and VCR. Stuck crookedly to the walls are diagrams of the human skeletal, muscular, and nervous systems. 

You think he was understating his interest in becoming a doctor. 

“Are you done? I think the tape’s in the bottom drawer, I have to move all this shit off my bed since Zee seems to think it's his personal laundry dumping ground,” Karkat cuts your staring off.

You pick your way over to the bureau, attempting to avoid tipping any precariously balanced book stacks. The drawer is filled with an assortment of things; pens and pencils, letters and papers and floppy disks, a baseball and glove, tapes titled in scribbly writing. You rifle through and have just unearthed a sleeveless Moonstruck when something catches your attention.

“Hey, is this you?”

Karkat stops and comes to crouch beside you, smiling wryly when he sees the picture. You’re momentarily surprised he hasn’t taken your head off for looking at his stuff. 

“I sure as hell do not miss being sixteen.”

“Dude, you looked like you could fuck someone up.”

“Hey, watch it,” Karkat knocks into you. “I could totally still fuck you up.”

You look scrutinizingly between the boy in the photograph; sitting on a curb, glare made severe by a black eye and split lip. The duct-taped boots and tattered cut offs were probably less of a fashion statement and more income bracket related. It’s jarring, current Karkat next to you, surrounded by Danielle Steel and softer around the edges.

“Who did that?” You run a thumb over the picture.

“Just some assholes at school,” he shrugs. 

You clench your jaw, surprised at the spark of anger you feel. You don’t get how he can dismiss it so easily. You were always well liked at school, and doubt people would have messed with you anyways considering your friends were a trigger happy amazon girl and a goth chick rumored to participate in satanic rituals. Karkat shouldn’t have had to put up with that. You’ve never hurt anyone before (except for that time you opened a door in Jake’s face and broke his nose, but that was an accident) but you sort of want to hurt whoever did that to Karkat, which is confusing and completely irrational. Bluh.

You glance at the other person in the picture. “Gamzee looks...”

Karkat grimaces. “Like a heroin addict?” 

You put the photo back and close the drawer. “Or something.” 

“Let me tell you, getting him off that shit was probably the worst experience of my life. What they don’t tell you is rehab is fucking expensive, and even if the money was there, he wouldn’t have gone. I pretty much locked us in a room and got him through it cold turkey,” Karkat’s hand reaches up to the small, spindly white scar on his forehead. “I was pretty sure we were both going to die in there.” 

“Jeez,” you rub the back of your neck. You know Rose has done drug stuff, and you don’t know about Jade. Dave definitely hasn’t. “I’ve never even smoked pot.” 

Karkat comes back from his thoughts, snickering. “Yeah, you seem like the straight edge type.” 

“I think that was an insult?” 

“Well spotted, genius. As much as I’m enjoying this lovely jaunt down memory lane, are we going to watch these fucking movies or not?” 

***

You watch the fucking movies. 

You can’t pay attention. Your hands keep bumping in the popcorn bowl and his bare knee is resting lightly against yours.

He makes it through Logan’s Run and halfway into Moonstruck before he falls asleep, slumped against your shoulder, your arms touching and his hair tickling your neck. You sit as still as you can and listen to him breathe. 

When the credits roll, Karkat shifts, lifts his head and blinks blearily at you. 

“Sorry, was I sleeping?” he asks, voice rough. “What time is it?”

“Late, I think. Wanna’ go to bed?”

He nods, lulling. You pull him up. His hands are slightly calloused.

Karkat complains about your cold feet and asks if you have class in the morning. He takes your glasses off and tells you how weird you look without them. You fall asleep with your face pressed to the nape of his neck, feeling like your skin is too tight to hold everything in.

Glow in the dark stars twinkle on the ceiling, blurred with your lack of sight.

***

You find out two more things about Karkat by the next morning, neither of them surprising: he kicks in his sleep, and is not a morning person.

_Really_ not a morning person. 

“Hey,” you whine, finding yourself on the floor instead of the bed.

Karkat peers at you from over the edge of the mattress, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. He’s sleep ruffled, face stuck between pissed and confused. “That’s what you get for throwing your limbs everywhere and stealing the space,” his sharp tongue is slurred.

“What time is it?” you ask, crawling back under the covers despite his huffs of protest. Karkat’s usually all sharp angles, prickly like his personality, but now he’s drowsy and pliable, skin smelling faintly of sweat. He grumbles and checks the clock.

“7:45.” You have class at 8:30.

“Better get up,” you mumble into him.

“Yeah,” Karkat sighs, “I need coffee.” He eventually gathers the energy to push himself out of bed. The door closes behind him with a quiet click. You grab your glasses from the bedside table before rising, running a hand through your hair and straightening your clothes in a feeble attempt to look presentable. 

Out in the hallway, you stop short on threshold of the living room, gut twisting.

Tavros is hunched over himself on the couch, gripping Sollux’s hand so hard the dark skin of his knuckles is white. Sollux stands nervously over him, holding a wet cloth to his forehead, while Karkat kneels, face eerily calm, hands smoothing gently over Tavros’s legs. They talk in murmurs. 

You don’t get what’s happening.

Tavros speaks haltingly, too long pauses in between words, face contorted in pain, “it hasn’t, hurt like this, in, awhile.”

“Do you think you’ll be sick?” Karkat asks and Tavros shakes his head. Karkat looks up and sees you, holding your eyes momentarily before turning to Sollux.

“Where’s Gamzee?”

Sollux hesitates. “With Terezi, I think.”

Tavros appears to wilt, curling into himself farther, and Karkat’s brow furrows. “Tav, I’m going to get your pills and make some tea, is that okay?”

“Uh, yeah, thanks.”

Karkat stands, telling you to follow him to the kitchen with a jerk of his head. He sets a rusty kettle to boil and rifles through one of the cabinets until he emerges with a familiar orange bottle. You stand there, silent, as Karkat leans on the counter, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and breathes out haltingly. You don’t know what to do, you don’t want him to look like that, you don’t know what to do.

So you open your stupid mouth. “What’s wrong with him?”

Karkat's expression goes cold. “He fell. As a kid, I guess. Severe nerve damage to his legs, a lot of reconstruction work, muscle atrophy. He can’t really walk. The barometric pressure makes the pain worse.”

You think about Tavros’s books and drawings and power ranger pajamas. Karkat takes the kettle off before it can whistle.

“I should go to school,” you say, throat tight, watching steam curl languidly in the air before dissipating. 

“Hey, what’s with that look?” Karkat’s face softens, weary. “Shit happens,” and then, “come here.” 

And you do, and he cradles the back of your head with a hand, and you think that taking care of people might be what Karkat does best (however grudgingly) and even if things are unfair and suck for a lot of people that are not you, it’ll be okay. 

You feel safe. 

As you pull on your coat to go, you hear Tavros, in a strained voice:

“It’s going to snow.”

***

It snows. 

Karkat complains. You think it’s a wonder he hasn’t run out of things to complain about. Like, taking into consideration how long he’s been talking and the amount of things he finds to criticize, denounce, lament and bemoan, it’s honestly impressive he hasn’t lost any of his voracity. Karkat has got bitching down to an art.

Even more surprising, you don’t find yourself getting tired of it. In fact, you look forward to it; the next hour long phone conversation, the next stolen moment in the aisle between the documentaries and the musicals.

You find out what he likes (diagonally cut sandwiches and aquariums and viruses) and what he hates (there’s a lot of that, linty sweaters and Will Ferrell and mayonnaise and consumerist holidays), what he dreams about (being chased by mail carriers, playing hot lava monster with actual lava, panhandling), how he sometimes smiles when caught off guard and how he does _not_ think pranks are funny (you didn’t shake the can _that_ much before handing it to him and that time you changed your voicemail to you saying “hello?” repeatedly didn’t really warrant him refusing to call you until you changed it), which way he likes to hold hands and how many eyelashes he has (around 587 in total, you couldn’t fall asleep and they’re really pretty, okay?).

Most of the time you act like best friends; order pizza and watch the X Files and squabble.  
Sometimes you don’t, when you’re making out and he’s thumbing the soft skin of your inner elbow and it’s slow and hesitant and you always back off before it goes anywhere, because you’re. 

Well. 

Kind of scared. 

For dumb reasons, reasons like, you haven’t told your dad. You don’t know how he’ll react. You know he doesn’t have a problem with this sort of thing objectively, but. You’re his son.

You don’t want to disappoint him. 

You _really_ don’t want to disappoint him.

But Karkat doesn’t push, and for that you’re incredibly lucky.

***

Until you’re not.

Like most fights, you don’t remember exactly how it started. 

You were talking about - you don’t know, your classes, and then how your dad had wanted you to go to a private school but your scores weren’t good enough because you suck at standardized testing, and then Karkat told you _his_ scores from when he thought he was still going to college and, 

okay, you knew he was smart, obviously. But those are _really_ high. 

Full scholarship high. 

So you might have done a lot of staring, maybe with your mouth open, and Karkat just tells you if anyone’s the real genius (that is a great movie) in this house, it’s Sollux. 

And because you hate how much Karkat dislikes himself, and you hate that he underestimates his capabilities, and you hate that above all Karkat complains about Karkat, you say something. 

And maybe you don’t say it as well as you could have, maybe you say that you “don’t understand why he didn’t go to college if tuition wasn’t even a problem.”

And then Karkat gets that look that’s a little chillier and a lot more scary, “Oh, I’m _sorry,_ ” he sneers, lip curling. “I was a little busy making funeral arrangements and dealing with my dope-fiend best friend. Or did you miss that part, you ignorant little rich boy?”

Okay, of course you’re going to get a little defensive at that. “Dude, I’m not even fucking rich! I’m like, middle class, and it’s my dad’s money anyways!” 

“Don’t you get it?” Karkat snaps, “To me, middle class _is_ rich! You may not wear a Rolex, own a yacht and drink Veuve Clicquot but you have the luxury of not having to think about things like how screwed you are if you get sick when you don’t have any medical insurance, or how many times you can visit the food bank in a year, and don’t you think I get tired of eating spaghetti for a week straight? When Sol started living here he was working at fucking DQ and figuring out ways to illegally collect unemployment - do you know how long he could have gone to jail for that? When you were donating all your non-perishables and winter coats in grade school, _I_ was the kid getting them. Check your fucking privilege, John.” 

“Ugh, Whatever!” You throw your hands up. “I’m talking about now! It’s obvious how much you want to be a doctor, Karkat, and with scores like that, they’ll pretty much pay you to go. Gamzee’s fine now, right? It’s been _three years_. You know what I think?”

You don’t remember standing up but you are now, in each other’s faces, Karkat making up for what he lacks in height with hostility; holding himself tense, taught.

“Please, tell me,” he bites out.

“I think that’s bullshit,” you jam a finger into his chest and he actually _snarls_ at you. “You’re just using old excuses because you’re scared.”

“You’re calling me a coward?”

“Yeah,” you frown, defiant. “I am.” 

“Who the _hell_ do you think you are?” Karkat's magnified through your glasses, teeth bared and unblinking. “Leave,” he hisses.

“Fine,” you say, and close his door with a little more force than necessary.

***

When you get home, you ignore Dave’s “‘Sup?” and go straight to your room, kick your desk in an uncharacteristic bout of anger, and collapse into the spinny chair. 

You know who you should talk to. You don’t want to. You frown at your computer as if the thing itself has personally offended you before admitting defeat, booting it up and logging into ICQ.

She is, of course, active, and messages you before you get the chance. Freaky psych-student sixth sense. She can probably smell the sweet aroma of emotional distress through the screen.

5:41:07 PM tentacleTherapist: Hello, John.  
5:41:11 PM tentacleTherapist: I’m surprised to see you online. Isn’t today reserved strictly for Karkat related activities? It’s one of the few instances you’re both unoccupied with work or classes, correct?

5:41:18 PM ghostyTrickster: rose! just the lady i wanted to talk to.  
5:41:26 PM ghostyTrickster: about that.  
5:41:29 PM ghostyTrickster: we sort of had a fight.  
5:41:38 PM ghostyTrickster: i guess.

5:41:45 PM tentacleTherapist: Well, you had a fight or you didn’t, which is it?

And so you tell her everything, just like you always do. 

5:46:55 PM tentacleTherapist: Are you going to break up?

5:47:03 PM ghostyTrickster: whaaaat? no!  
5:47:09 PM ghostyTrickster: i mean, i really hope not.

5:48:17 PM tentacleTherapist: Then give him a couple of days, John. You’re not going to like hearing this, but I’m sure you already know it’s true. From what you’ve told me, you’ve been a real shit. I know you mean the best and only want him to realize his own potential, but you have no clue as to the particulars of his situation, and neither do I, and some half-stories about his past doesn’t change that. You can’t just waltz into his life and start telling him what’s best. It’s not going to change his mind. In fact, it will do the opposite; as I understand it, Karkat may underestimate himself, but he also seems to have a great deal of pride.

5:48:25 PM ghostyTrickster:...

5:48:33 PM tentacleTherapist: Am I correct in what I said?

5:49:51 PM ghostyTrickster: yeah.

5:50:22 PM tentacleTherapist: Now, I’m not saying that you’re wrong in wanting his aspirations realized, but you’re his boyfriend, not his life coach. Karkat needs to know that you’ll still be there for him whether he goes to college or not.

5:50:30 PM tentacleTherapist: I have to get to practice, brother dearest, so I’m afraid it’s here I’ll leave you.

5:50:46 PM ghostyTrickster: ew. please don’t call me that, you creep.

5:51:03 PM tentacleTherapist: Never. Think about what I said, alright?

5:51:10 PM ghostyTrickster: ok.

5:51:14 PM tentacleTherapist: See you at Christmas.

***

Your name is **KARKAT VANTAS** and you’ve moved the phone into your room so you can **STARE FORLORNLY** at it without being **INTERRUPTED.**

You’ve listened to a **MIX TAPE** gifted to you by **ERIDAN AMPORA** roughly 20 times. It contains a lot of **HOMOSEXUAL UNDERTONES** and **GOOD BASS LINES.** You’ve reached an all time low by taking part in this post-punk hipster tragedy. Morrissey’s sweet crooning is really just making things worse.

Your coping mechanisms include:  
1\. Not picking up the phone when John calls you, then obsessing over the fact that he doesn't leave a message.  
2\. Fanatically watching Crossroads for five days straight.  
3\. Eating a lot of pre-sliced cheese.  
4\. Finally leaving your room to stare blankly out of the smudged living room window, watching Gamzee’s juggling pins spin rhythmically through the air in the parking lot (you would be worried about people’s vehicles if you didn’t know he could never drop one. You don’t even get why he practices. It’s cathartic, maybe). 

And then an all too familiar car pulls up, and an all too familiar boy gets out. 

Fuck, you're relieved.

Gamzee notices him as well. They exchange words, John shifting on his feet, wary. Zee’s face is eerily serene, one club swung over his shoulder and two in the other hand. The threat is clear from here. 

John must have said something right though, because he lets him pass. 

There’s a knock on the front door, an unsure “Karkat?”

“What?” you bark, after a beat. 

“It’s John. I came to apologize.”

You open the door slowly. He’s wearing the black hoodie you didn’t say anything about him taking, dark sharp against his pale skin and pen ink eyes. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Let’s have it, then.”

John takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I was such an-” 

“Insensitive prick,” you interject.

“An insensitive prick,” John smiles, teeth jutting out. “I still think that you could and should do it, but you’re not going to be any less,” he hesitates here, words balancing on the tip of his tongue, "important," he settles on, "to me if you don’t. You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to. But consider it, yeah?” 

You look at him, unguarded. “Yeah, I can do that.”

***

It’s not that you don’t want to fuck John.

God knows you do. But you’ve been content to spend your nights biting the pillow and rutting up against your mattress like you’re suddenly a pubescent boy again, and although ultimately unsatisfying, you can live with it. 

You get that he’s yet to warm up to the idea of doing the nasty with a guy, and that’s not going to change the way you feel about him.

Of course it’s a little difficult when he decides to drop something like “Dave’s visiting his brother in Texas for his birthday, so he’s not home right now,” on your way to his apartment, because if that wasn’t a blatant fucking solicitation, you don’t know what is. 

You narrow your eyes at John, who keeps his deliberately on the road. His ears are red.

So you spend the entire car ride confused and suddenly sort of horny, trying to figure out if he’s saying what you think he’s saying or if this is one of those rare moments where John’s actually as oblivious as he likes to act. 

His apartment building is a rosy brick, neat and clean. It’s one of the historical buildings in town, with the last of the old oaks lining the sidewalk. No, the only type of infestation here is trendy college students. Figures. John punches in the passcode for the main door, and inside is cool and quiet. It has that odd, sweet scent that old places and second hand clothes do. You’re too busy thinking of other things to take in the small details; the faded carpeting on the stairs or the fluffy, flat faced cat twisting around a corner. 

You watch the fabric of John’s t-shirt shift across his back as he walks in front of you. Expectation sits heavy in your stomach. It takes three tries for him to get his key in the lock. 

When he flicks on the light switch, you have a minute to notice the sheer amount of shit they have; swords on the wall, soundboards, turntables stacked on amplifiers stacked on speakers (with all of their cords creeping across the ground), a shitty skateboard placed innocuously in the entryway, ALF and Protomen posters, sleeved records lining shelves.

“Are those _shuriken?_ ”

“At least Dave keeps the preserved dead stuff in his own room,” John says absently, and you turn to him. 

His eyes are video channel blue, an expression you’ve yet to see on his face. He’s looking at you like he _wants_ you and it makes heat shoot straight to your gut. 

He takes a step forward, putting you up against the door.

“I know this is the first time you’ve been over to my place and I really do want to watch Spy Kids, but I also think I sort of want to do gay stuff with you,” he blurts out.

“Dick touching gay stuff?”

“I am seriously hoping dicks will be touched. But not like,” John wrinkles his nose in a show of childish dissatisfaction, “you know.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “If you can’t even say it, we are definitely not doing it.”

“And you’re cool with that?” He asks, uncertain. 

You sigh shortly. “Of course I’m cool with that, idiot.”

John brings a hand up to card his fingers through your hair, tugging a little to pull your head back, blushing when you humm in appreciation. 

He wets his lips before leaning down to kiss you, soft, tonguing shyly at the seam of your mouth. You open for him and it turns fast; hot and damp, the slippery sounds of your kissing loud in the quiet apartment. 

You nip at him and John groans into you and your brain short circuits. 

He pulls back, pushing his face into the crook of your neck, skewed glasses pressing into your skin. You hold him there, running a hand up under the back of his shirt, feeling warm skin and smoothing fingers over the knobs of his spine, slotting a leg between his thighs, feeling him pant. Your head is buzzing and not a lot is making sense besides John pressing his body weight against you, he’s hard, you can feel it, and,

“oh jesus fuck,” you swear, exhaling with a shudder. John’s palming the front of your jeans, pressing with the ball of his hand, and your dick jumps right to fucking attention. “You’re not wasting any time, are you?” He laughs softly. “Are we going to do this in the hallway or do you have a room?” 

John kisses you quick, grabs the loops of your jeans and pulls you forward with that goofy grin. You chase his lips until he backs into another door, run your tongue across his dumb teeth before he manages to turn the knob. You both stumble into his room, walking blind until there’s a bed at the back of your knees. You fall on it with a soft thump, look up at John standing over you.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself, you little shit,” you gripe, pulse jumping like a jackrabbit. “Take off your clothes.”

“Mouthy,” John grins, pulling his shirt over his head, all lean lines and milky skin. You swallow thickly when he unbuckles his belt, pulling it off with sharp, jerky motions. He reaches for his glasses next, but you stop him with a noise of protest.

“Leave those on,” you mumble, and feel your face heat up. John raises an eyebrow pointedly, but doesn’t comment. He unbuttons his pants instead, revealing yellow, Star Trek insignia printed boxer-briefs. God, his legs go on forever. 

“Nerd,” you snicker, and then John starts hopping around because he’s got his jeans caught on his foot and you can’t help but laugh, trying to muffle it with your hands. Finally he manages to kick them off after nearly losing his balance, and you’re still laughing when he climbs on top of you, when he tries to pull your hands off your mouth. You turn to hide your face in the sheets, fighting him halfheartedly. 

He manages to pin your wrists down, all bucktoothed smile, pupils dilated wide. “You should laugh more.”

“My laugh is horrible,” you say breathlessly, trying to scowl and failing. 

“It’s sexy,” he winks, and starts laying sloppy wet kisses all over your cheeks when you scoff.

“John that’s disgusting. Stop! What are you, a dog?” You reproach, screwing up your slobbered on face. He’s let go of your wrists and you don’t hesitate to pinch one of his cute, pink nipples that you totally have not been thinking about since he took his shirt off. John yelps, surprised, and you roll over so he's under you. 

“Heeeey,” he whines, covering his chest with both hands. 

“Baby,” you smile meanly. 

“Why are you still dressed?”

You snort and sit up, John whimpering when rough denim rubs against him. You rid yourself of your shirt, feel John’s fingers unzip your fly, having to get off him to struggle gracelessly out of your jeans. Hooking your fingers under the elastic of your boxers, you pull them down too. 

John’s on his side now, leaning over you with his head propped on an elbow. He slips a hand down your stomach, trailing his fingers through dark, wiry hairs before closing them around your dick, thumbing the head. You can’t help the way you push up into his grasp, the moan that worms its way out of you.

“Fuck, Karkat,” John says shakily, and you glare at him through half lidded eyes when he takes his hand away to remove his own underwear.

“That’s the idea,” you growl, getting caught up in John wearing nothing but white socks, all hip bones and knobby knees and completely perfect in every way. “Come here,” you reach for him, pressing your bodies together completely, skin to skin, heavy and so good. 

Your hips meet and both of you hiss when your dicks slide together, John pressing his mouth against yours hard and urgent, pelvis stuttering forward. You arch under him, unable to stop your choked off moans. You’ve always been kind of noisy during sex. John is quiet in comparison, flushed, hitching breaths into your neck.

Your rhythm is shaky at best, but everything inside you is bright and fuzzy and you know you're not going to last long, but it’s been a fucking while and you’ll have plenty of time to work up your stamina. Maybe get to things a little more interesting.

Your skin is between his teeth and you jerk under him, the hand you have in his hair going tight. “Do that again,” you manage to get out, voice rough. “Harder.” 

John nips you, fast and sharp and it stings. Your grab at his shoulders, digging your blunt nails in. “Harder,” you snarl. “Come on you lily-livered dick muncher, I’m not going to break.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” John groans and bites you hard, teeth sinking into your shoulder. You gasp, rake your hands down his back. 

John rocks harder against you, the space between all velvety skin, slick with sweat and pre-cum. You're sparking like a live wire, white hot and electric and that pressure is pulling tighter and,

“John, John, _John_ ,” you grit your teeth, muscles clenching up, “I’m going to-”

And you do, embarrassingly fast, toes curling and thighs shaking. John slows above you, gentling, kissing you through it, and when you can think again you brush the hair sticking to his forehead back, awkwardly sentimental. You reach between, hand getting sticky with your own spunk, wrapping your fingers around his dick, you stroke once, twice before he finishes. 

John flops down on top of you, boneless. Both of you are breathing hard, smelling of sex and skin sticking together in a sort of gross, pleasing way. 

“Okay?” you ask scratchily, tracing the raised lines on his back.

“Awesome,” he replies, dazed. 

“Good. Your fatass is crushing me. Get off.” 

“Way to ruin the moment, asshole,” John laughs and sluggishly rolls off of you. He uses his shirt to wipe himself off, shrugging when you give him a look. You take it anyways and do the same, following when he drags himself up and climbs under the sheets.

His bed is soft. Your eyelids droop, thoughts quiet.

It’s not even that late.

There are patterns being drawn into your skin, the smattering of moles connected into constellations. John whispers your name.

You humm distantly, mellow dream space pulling at your conscience. 

“I like you a lot,” he says, hushed.

“I like you a lot too,” you mumble, and sleep. 

***

You wake up with the strong need to piss. 

Your head is tucked under John’s chin. There’s an arm curled around your waist and legs entwined with your own. You don’t want to get up. 

Disentangling yourself from the various limbs proves difficult, but you manage. You sit on the edge of his bed, waiting for your brain to catch up with your body, stretching away some of the soreness and wincing at the sting in your shoulder. John looks younger, boyish in his sleep; lips parted, hair an inky black mess against the pillow.

His room is a certifiable disaster site around you (how you didn't trip and die last night is a mystery), a desk full of library checkouts, papers spilling across the floor, open textbooks with half-highlighted pages, clothes and CD cases. You find your boxers in the mess. 

There’s two doors in the room, and you peek through one with the hope it’ll be what you’re looking for. 

You grope around the inner wall, flicking a switch and peering into the dim, strange lighting. “Fucking A,” you mutter. “This is some red room shit right here.” Maybe your initial impression was right and John’s some type of psycho-killer, because you are expecting smooth jazz and a backward talking dwarf any second now. 

You hated that show. You’d take a straightforward plot over Lynch’s disconcerting surrealist crap any day. 

Despite the chemistry trays in the tub, the metal contraption and the numerous opaque jugs (one of which you are definitely reading as some type of acid), it is, in fact, a bathroom.

After you find the toilet, you splash water on your face and rinse out your mouth. The marks on your neck and shoulder are dark in the red glare. Yeah, those are going to last awhile. 

And then something by the sink grabs you, the repository of prescription medication instantly identifiable. You really shouldn’t look.

You ignore the part of you saying your future self will hate you for this and pick it up, pills clacking. 

Rx. 6007548313 JOHN EGBERT  
ADDERALL 20MG 100 TABLETS  
TAKE ONE CAPSULE BY MOUTH TWICE DAILY

You stare at the bottle in your hands before putting it back, unsurprised and vaguely guilty.

You find your way out into the cold expanse of the living room, bright with the snow outside. There’s a terrarium glowing warm in the corner and you pad silently over to it, searching before seeing the slick yellow salamander nestled among water beaded tropical plants. It blinks its beady, black eyes at you once, then disappears into the dark recesses of a plastic log. 

Despite your snooping, you manage to miss the suitcase parked by the front door, so when you turn into the kitchen and see some kid sitting on the counter staring at you with fucking _red_ ass eyes, you’re a little startled. 

“Jesus fucking christ, you scared the shit out of me,” you swear, taking a step back.

His expression goes from surprised to blank and mildly uncomfortable in a second, bizarre eyes looking you over, settling on the bruises. 

You’ve never seen someone with such extreme albinism before, and you look through medical textbooks for fun. His hair is fine and light blonde like a child’s, skin so pale you can practically see his veins. The eyes are the most alarming, bright from the red blood vessels underneath an unpigmented iris. 

He’s not too much taller than you, skinny; the Daft Punk shirt and washed out jeans loose on his frame. On his feet are the rattiest pair of red high tops you’ve ever seen. 

The unfaltering way he’s looking at you is seriously off-putting. You’re acutely aware of the fact you’re lacking in the clothing department. 

“Isn’t that my line? You’re the random guy in my place,” The guy says, hint of a Southern lilt around the curves of his words. “Karkat, yeah?”

You nod slowly. “You must be Dave, then.” 

“That’s the name.” 

Something in the kitchen pings. 

“Coffee?” He asks. 

***

Your name is **JOHN EGBERT** and you wake up and **FREAK OUT A LITTLE** because the space where Karkat should be is empty and the sheets are cold. 

Of course you freak out in a very **COOL** and **MANLY** way. 

Then you realize that his pants are still on the floor, and the twinge in your chest dissipates. Heh, can’t leave without those.

There are voices in the kitchen. 

You pull some sweats from the various piles of clothing and adjust your lopsided glasses that somehow made it through the night both on your face and unbroken. Emerging from your bedroom, you remind yourself to pick up some crickets for Casey and take your meds later.

Something is said about Weird Al and art forms and you already know who it is before he comes into view, familiar shades in place, bickering (straight faced, of course, he is a Strider) with Karkat, who’s practically inhaling a cup of coffee between snippy remarks. He’s wearing one of your t-shirts, too long but tight in the arms. 

Dave stops, noticing you. “Hey, Johnny boy. Nice work,” he nods at the vivid bite marks peeking over the hem. You both flush.

“John,” Karkat cuts in. “I see you’ve deigned to grace us with your presence. Thank god, if I had to spend another moment alone with this tool and his pretentious bullshit, I might have started bashing my head into your lovely counters. Perhaps in a nice rhythmic fashion, I’m sure Dave could do something with it if his “sick beats” are the musical genius he claims they are. Seriously, there would be brain matter everywhere and you’d have to clean it up. It’s either that or lobotomy via shish kabob skewer, assuming you own those.” 

You choose to ignore that. “I thought you were at Dirk’s until next week, man.”

“What, there’s someone new in your life and suddenly you don’t want me around?” Dave pouts and you roll your eyes. He slides you a cup of coffee down the counter, managing not spill a lukewarm, milky drop. 

“Bro needed him to do some tech shit with the smuppets or something, you know I check right out when those things are involved,” Dave’s mouth twitches, “and Eggs? Your boyfriend is a shouty little bitch.” 

Karkat’s expression turns nasty. “You must have gotten mixed up and replaced your roommate with an instrument used for cleaning vaginas; I think it's referred to colloquially as ‘douchebag.’ An easy mistake to make though, the resemblance must be uncanny. Also, what’s up with your freaky slaughterhouse bathroom?”

“That’s my dark room,” Dave answers. 

You think it’s too early to deal with this shit.

***

It’s picked up on the third ring. 

“Hello?” you press the phone closer to your ear, clutching it nervously. “Dad?”

_“Oh son, it’s so good to hear from you. We were starting to think you’d forgotten us. I’m sure Roxy would have loved to say hello, but she's lecturing at Bard today.”_

“That’s okay,” you swallow, throat clicking. “She’ll see me soon enough.”

_“Which reminds me, I’d been meaning to talk to you about the Christmas party. I believe your cousins are going to be able to join us this year, as they’re taking a short reprieve from their gallivanting around South America.”_

“Jake and Jade will be there? Great,” you offer weakly. Static crackles over the line.

_“Is something the matter, John? You don’t sound quite yourself.”_

“Um,” you have to hold the phone between your shoulder and cheek to wipe your sweaty palms on your pants. “I need to talk to you about something sort of serious, but I’m a little bit scared of what you’re going to think. I guess it’s, er, probably not a choice you would have made for me?” Your voice cracks like you're a teenager again.

He’s silent for awhile. You get up from your spot on the couch to pace the apartment. 

_“You’ve grown up to be a fine young man, and you have my full confidence in whatever decisions you make. You know I couldn’t be prouder to have you as my son.”_

Ugh, you forgot what a total sap he is. Okay. You’re doing this. You’re making this happen. “There’s someone I want to bring to Christmas with me.” 

_“You didn’t get some poor girl pregnant did you?”_ He sighs, fuzzy on the connection. _“What’s her name?”_

“No dad, I didn’t get anyone pregnant,” you laugh shakily. “His name is Karkat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next (and last) installment was supposed to be up by Christmas, but that didn't happen (I am the slowest of the slow), so we'll just be having some mid January festivity.


End file.
